Satire, Politics, New England, Bullshit


Wrong Kid? Who Cares? Y’Seen One, Y’Seen ‘Em All

    A couple of months ago, this story appeared in the New York Post:
Elderly man brings wrong child home from school
By Tara Palmeri

    A 79-year-old man who thought he was picking up his great-grandchild from school on Friday drove home with the wrong tot — and didn’t realize the snafu until his wife eyeballed the little boy.
    As soon as the great-grandfather made a right turn instead of a left out of the Sterling, Conn. school, 5-year-old Everett Stone yelled “I live on Pine Hill Road!” which incidentally is the same street that his great-grandson lives on. [Ed. Note: I believe Ms. Palmeri means the great-grandson of the great-grandfather, not the great-grandson of Everett as her syntax would indicate. But I may be wrong.]
    “[The great-grandfather] said ‘I know you live on Pine Hill Road but your mom is sick so you have to come to my house,’” the boy’s father, Derek Stone, 38, told The Post.
    “The man pulls into his garage and my son refuses to get out of the car.”
    “So the man goes into the house and gets his wife, who took my son’s hat off, and said ‘Hey you have the wrong kid...’”
    The story then goes on, in a rather breezy and fairly confusing fashion, to describe the return of the little boy to his birth parents.
    I imagine the reunion went well, though I can’t vouch for it (the child appears to be a tough little nut) but aside from considerable subsequent “fuming” by father Stone and his wife Angela directed at the school authorities and great-grandfathers in general, the incident seems to have simmered down.
    It’s true that Googling “boy school wrong grandfather” results in several hundred million hits, but almost anything on Google results in several hundred million hits. (The word “popcorn” for example, netted 528,000,000 results in 0.70 seconds.) More important, as of this writing there have been no petitions to Congress calling for the outlawing of automatic assault great-grandfathers. However, several bills have been introduced in the Connecticut legislature. One calls for metal ID tags to be stapled on the ears of all five-year-old boys. A second would require kindergartners of all known sexes to be branded on their flanks with their home addresses and parents’ social security numbers.
*   *   *
    Several aspects of Everett’s Odyssey bother me.

    Why did the supposed great-grandmother need to remove Everett’s hat before she could “eyeball” him as “the wrong kid?” I can understand why a man might not recognize his own offspring, let alone a great-grandson — after all, men have more important things to worry about than the names and faces of blood relatives (all of whom look pretty much alike anyway) — but women, driven by well-known biological imperatives and peculiarities of brain structure are supposed to be innately expert at that sort of thing. I mean my wife never had to remove hats from our sons before she could sort them out for seating at the dinner table. In fact they kept their hats on when eating dinner — and during breakfast and lunch as well.
    For that matter, why, in this day and age, are boy kindergartners forced to wear hats in the first place? I mean one five-year-old boy looks and acts pretty much like every other five-year-old boy which is to say annoying and dirty. Why muddle the issue further by making the little bastards wear hats (which any self-respecting five-year-old boy hates). What’s next? Hoodies? So they can all look forward to lives of crime?

    I find the use of the expressions “Elderly,” “79-year-old,” and “great-grandfather”
to be ageistic and sexist. It is clear that they represent the bigotry of ageism, sexism and 79-year-old-ism at its individual and collective worst.
    In this regard, note that nothing is mentioned about the old fellow’s wife’s age or mental condition (presumably she was a great-grandmother and no spring chicken herself).
    I for one (or two or three) are fed up with sensationalized news stories every time a senior citizen is involved in a minor automobile incident or accidental homicide.
    Do we really need to be told that the driver of the SUV that went out of control in the Walmart parking lot and crashed through the store’s front window and into the men’s blue jeans department killing several shoppers and maiming 20 or 30 others was a ninety-seven-year-old retiree with a history of narcolepsy?
    And God forbid an eighty-nine-year-old chick should be accused of stabbing her ninety-three-year-old boyfriend with her six-inch stiletto “fuck me” heels. I mean we’d never hear the end of it....the politicians would be demanding legislation to require eighty-year-old women to demonstrate hobbling proficiency before being allowed to purchase dangerous footwear.

    Although the mistransportation of a five-year-old by a well-meaning if near-sighted and geriatric gentleman received modest recognition in the back pages of a few newspapers, imagine the nationwide uproar if the victim had happened to be a cute little puppy dog rather than your typical run-of-the-mill human child.
    I can imagine the front-page streamer in the Manchester New Hampshire Union Leader:

Rare Pit Bull Stolen From Peterborough Schoolyard
Elderly Sand Hill Road Resident sought as “Person of Interest”
Norm Mack recuperating from dog bites in Monadnock Community Hospital

    Or this Pulitzer-winning New York Times article:

Border Police Raid Activist Texas Kennel
Dozens of infant Chihuahuas held for questioning

So-called “undocumented” migrants from Mexico

Obama: “They could be my children”

    Or a 17-page, 20,000-word, 10-point Times Roman in-depth exposé in the New Yorker magazine:

The coal industry, Jeanne Shaheen, and transgender puppies

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Sausage Multiplication or Why You Can’t Find Things in Supermarkets

    It’s been going on for a long time (and getting steadily worse), but the horror didn’t fully penetrate my organs of comprehension (my left brain and right testicle) until last December during holiday season.
    It was breakfast-time, several relatives were visiting (carefully chosen to prevent any outbreaks of feuds, armed confrontations, and 911 calls) and I had been dispatched to Shaw’s Extremely Expensive Supermarket in Peterborough to purchase sausages.
    Sausages (spelled S A U S A G E S) are slippery, tubular, reddish-grayish-tannish three-or-four-inch-long affairs containing amorphous ground-up hog parts encased in cellophane or swine intestine or left-over saran wrap. Traditionally, sausages are placed in a frying pan and cooked in a sea of sputtering fat in an attempt to immobilize any stray bacteria or trichinosis larvae that the sausages might be harboring.
    On arrival at Shaw’s, I was intercepted by several of the store’s finest temps and subjected to “How are you today, sir?” and “Can I help you find anything, sir?” pleasantries that Shaw employees are trained to eject in lieu of management lowering prices to compete with Market Basket.
    My first port of call was the meat display along the store’s western wall where I discovered enough chicken in various states of dismemberment, skinlessness, and debonédment to feed an army.
    There were no sausages, however.
    I next trekked in a south-southwesterly direction to the land of frozen foods. At the end of a long row of cabinets, behind frost-glazed glass doors I encountered a cornucopia of sausages:
All Natural Fully Cooked Sausage Links
All Natural Fully Cooked Maple Sausage Links
All Natural Fully Cooked Mild Sausage Patties
Brown & Serve Original Sausage Patties
Brown & Serve Sausage Links
Brown & Serve Maple Sausage Links
Fully Cooked Original Sausage Links
Fully Cooked Turkey Sausage Links
Heat & Serve Original Sausage Patties
Vermont Maple Syrup Sausage Links
Reduced Fat Fully Cooked Maple Flavored Sausage Patties
    Alas. My wife had ordered me to obtain SAUSAGES — uncooked, unflavored, unpattied, unbrowned-and-served, and with their full complements of saturated fat.
    After several minutes of fruitless (sausageless?) searching and despite the well-known patience and self-control which I inherited from my crazy mother, annoyance gradated into anger gradated into rage.
    To my left a gigantic lady who was over-flowing her battery-powered courtesy cart glanced nervously in my direction, shifted into reverse, and made her escape.
    Moments later, a beardless youth with a Shaw’s logo on his shirt appeared. “Can I help you with anything, sir?”
    “SAUSAGES,” I said calmly but loudly. “I do not want maple flavored or turkey or brown-and-serve or patties or licorice-yogurt or free-ranging or...”
    “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t carry licorice-yogurt sausages, sir,” the boy said.
    “I was joking,” I said. “All I want is plain old uncooked link sausages.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t carry plain uncooked link sausages. There’s no call for them."
    “Perhaps there’s no call for them because you don't carry them,” I suggested.
    “I do apologize, sir. You could email our marketing department headquarters in Nova Scotia to request that we start carrying plain uncooked link sausages.”
    “I’ll do that as soon as I get home,” I said bitterly.
    “I apologize, sir. Why don’t you try Newman’s Own Fresh-Frozen Light All Natural Fully Cooked Gluten-Free Orange-Flavored Organic Brown-and-Serve Free Range Chicken Patties? They’re on sale this month.”
    “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I said. “I’m allergic to non-gluten.”
    “I do apologize, sir.”
    I gave up on the sausage hunt and headed to the frankfurter area. After all, frankfurters resemble sausages even though they taste entirely different.
    There was no lack of variety in Wienerville.
    There were smoked turkey franks, original turkey franks, bun length turkey franks, lean beef low-fat franks, extra-length lean beef franks, organic uncured all-beef franks, skinless beef franks, smoked uncured kosher franks, garlic and onion franks, chicken franks, jalapeño franks, and natural-casing all-beef organic kosher franks among others.
    I began to feel light-headed. Perhaps it was my anti-hypertension drugs kicking in. A fiftyish lady clad in a smock emblazoned with a Shaw’s logo came by. “Is everything alright, sir?”
    “Not really,” I said.
    “Should I call a doctor? You look pale.”
    “Not to worry,” I said. “It's terminal.”
    “I do apologize, sir. Can I help you find anything, sir?”
    “Do you happen to stock free-range organic vanilla-hazelnut-flavored unsalted low-sugar gluten-free fish sticks?” I inquired.
*   *   *

1. I eventually secured some plain old sausages at Roy’s grocery and butcher shop in downtown Peterborough.
2. I went back to Shaw’s several weeks later to research other supermarket foods. Not to suffocate readers with detail, I discovered 6 kinds of rice, 18 kinds of coffee, 12 varieties of (Lays) potato chips, 8 varieties of (Colgate) toothpaste, 6 kinds of milk. 12 varieties of (Ragù) spaghetti sauce, five varieties of (Hellman’s) mayonnaise, and 4 varieties of (Heinz) vinegar.
    What I find particularly interesting (or should I say disheartening) is that the descriptive labels associated with many of these hundreds of varietals have absolutely no meaning whatsoever — “Smart Taste” pasta, “Real” mayonnaise, “Total Advance” toothpaste, “Major Dickenson’s” coffee, “Hearty” spaghetti sauce, “Classic” potato chips, “Original” vegetable cocktail, and so on and so on and so on and so on.
    Ah well...That’s progress for you.
    As the poet e. e. cummings wrote: “Progress is a comfortable disease” and “We doctors know a hopeless case” and “listen, there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go.”

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Mozilla-Firefox: “Freedom Is Slavery...Ignorance Is Strength”

    The following document, couched in the branch of Orwellian Newspeak favored by politically correct bigots, is the work of Mozilla-Firefox executive chairwoman (Winifred) Mitchell Baker. (For reasons you’ll need to take up with her analyst, she insists on dropping the girly sobriquet “Winifred,” in favor of simply being addressed as Mitchell.)
    In any event, Mitch feels that her cowardly, inane, lying, weasel-worded, groveling, jargon-ridden narrative constitutes a principled explanation for the forced ouster of Mozilla CEO Brendan Eich.
    Read it and weep, all ye who believe in free speech and the sanctity of free thought.
    Mozilla prides itself on being held to a different standard and, this past week, we didn’t live up to it. We know why people are hurt and angry, and they are right: it’s because we haven’t stayed true to ourselves.
    We didn’t act like you’d expect Mozilla to act. We didn’t move fast enough to engage with people once the controversy started. We’re sorry. We must do better.
    Brendan Eich has chosen to step down from his role as CEO. He’s made this decision for Mozilla and our community.
    Mozilla believes both in equality and freedom of speech. Equality is necessary for meaningful speech. And you need free speech to fight for equality. Figuring out how to stand for both at the same time can be hard.
    Our organizational culture reflects diversity and inclusiveness. We welcome contributions from everyone regardless of age, culture, ethnicity, gender, gender-identity, language, race, sexual orientation, geographical location and religious views. Mozilla supports equality for all.
    We have employees with a wide diversity of views. Our culture of openness extends to encouraging staff and community to share their beliefs and opinions in public. This is meant to distinguish Mozilla from most organizations and hold us to a higher standard. But this time we failed to listen, to engage, and to be guided by our community.
    While painful, the events of the last week show exactly why we need the web. So all of us can engage freely in the tough conversations we need to make the world better.
    We need to put our focus back on protecting that Web. And doing so in a way that will make you proud to support Mozilla.
    What’s next for Mozilla’s leadership is still being discussed. We want to be open about where we are in deciding the future of the organization and will have more information next week. However, our mission will always be to make the Web more open so that humanity is stronger, more inclusive and more just: that’s what it means to protect the open Web.
    We will emerge from this with a renewed understanding and humility — our large, global, and diverse community is what makes Mozilla special, and what will help us fulfill our mission. We are stronger with you involved.
    Thank you for sticking with us.

    Mitchell Baker, Executive Chairwoman

    Brendan Eich’s crime?
    Six years ago, in California, he contributed $1,000 in support of Proposition 8, an initiative that defined marriage as a contract between a man and a woman
    There’s no point parsing Baker’s disgusting document.
    Even Joseph Goebbels in his malevolent prime wouldn’t have had the gall — or stupidity — to claim that the persecution of dissidents was essential to a free society.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Is Sex Beautiful?

    This dumb question popped into what passes for my brain the other day when I happened to channel surf onto a scene in one of those Mission Impossible potboilers during which Michelle Monaghan (who is beautiful) was about to have sex with Tom Cruise (who is even more beautiful).
    As I understood it from my brief glimpse of the action, Motion Picture Tom had just finished marrying Motion Picture Michelle and, after an interlude of meaningful Motion Picture Staring, the two Motion Picture Lovers were Motion Picture Hot To Trot in the time-honored Hollywood tear-off-your-clothes-and-mash-lips tradition.
    I don’t know what happened next because I switched channels, but I’m pretty sure Michelle didn’t flash a tit and that Tom kept his johnson, such as it is, safely out of sight. I also assume everything became gauzy and flowery and close-upped and rose-scented with Vaseline-lens camera work and delicate background music all calculated to allay any fear by viewers that sexual intercourse might involve lust rather than love and entail unpleasant collateral damage such as sweat, mess, odors, and dull labial sounds rather than the ethereal beauty of mankind’s most profound act.
    Well...that’s show biz. As for real life (if such a thing as real life exists anymore) and to answer the question posed up top: Sex may be many things — fun...dirty...exhausting...healthful...
obligatory...disgusting...mystifying...idiotic — but beautiful it is not.
    Not only is fornication not a particularly graceful or poetic transaction, the truth is that screwing — in any of its immense variety of forms and positions — can be, and usually is, a rather awkward undertaking.
    I can’t speak for other men, but I am not a fan of the awkwardness part of the process. And, once again speaking for myself only, I admit that I’m no Fred Astaire when it comes to copulation. Enthusiastic, perhaps, even athletic and innovative, but as for dancing on the ceiling or twirling my partner round and under my legs — forget it. Should I be so plastered as to try such stuff, the result would probably be serious damage to one or both participants followed by a 911 call
*   *   *.
    I do concede that once the contestants (nominally two) have established the agreed-upon positioning and have succeeded in aligning their important anatomical units satisfactorily, the ensuing action can be, and often is, on the pleasurable side.
    But beautiful?
    C’mon, give me a break.
    Why anyone would call this process beautiful, is beyond me. I mean we’ve all seen dogs humping and I’ve watched dinosaurs and whales and snakes and what not performing the act on Animal Planet. But with all due unrespect to nature lovers and fans of animal porn, not only isn’t such activity beautiful, as far as I’m concerned it isn’t even interesting let alone amusing, charming, titillating, or educational.
    British writer D. H. Lawrence — he of Lady Chatterley fame and he who has been rumored to have leaned to the acey deucey side of the equation — wrote a poem, “The Elephant Is Slow to Mate,” in which he rhapsodized on the beauty of copulating elephants.
    Now I personally have never been privy to a live exhibition of elephant fucking — neither heterosexual elephants nor gay elephants — nor is it on my bucket list. But one thing I’m sure of, D. H. Lawrence or no, it is not an event that conjures up images of daisies and butterflies and ballerinas and Chopin sonatas. (A mud slide in Haiti would be more like it, set to Beethoven’s Ninth or Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.)
    In a similar vein, the Museum of Natural History’s Human Origins Hall does not include a diorama of a hairy, potbellied specimen of homo sapiens in the act of rogering a female specimen of the same species.
    Think about it...
    If the sex act is as gorgeous and delicate and esthetically exquisite as all those thousands of chick-lit romance novels and Hollywood epics would have it, wouldn’t the great art galleries of the world — the Louvre, the New York Met, the Uffizi — be stuffed to the gills with statues and paintings of men porking women and women pleasuring themselves atop men? I mean even Madame Tussauds waxworks, which is by no means the pinnacle of civilized elegance, is pretty much limited to well-clothed gentlemen and ladies, almost always upright and, as far as I know, seldom engaging in even a handshake let alone a kiss or anything more serious.
    Of course, there have been a few half-hearted artistic attempts at illustrating physical male-female, male-male, and female-female love.
    A well-known work by sculptor August Rodin (M. Rodin clearly had more than a passing interest in the opposite sex despite his horrendous beard) is a larger-than life piece called “The Kiss” featuring a nubile young chick entwined about a muscular young stud.

      Left: Rodin's "The Kiss." Right: "The Morning After." (He's wondering if she's knocked up.)

    And I wouldn’t be the least surprised if the immortal Pablo Picasso didn’t address the theme of sexual intercourse somewhere among the thousands of immortal works of crap that he churned out in the course of his long life. The world may never be certain, however, considering that the body parts in relevant Picasso canvases would undoubtedly be so distorted, scattered, and ill-drawn as to render the paintings indistinguishable from still lifes of hog chitterlings and decayed haggis set against an amorphous field of gray vomit.
    So what it all comes down to is this:
    If you and/or your favorite partner or partners complains that your sexual encounters are crass and animalistic rather than uplifting and soul-enhancing, I would advise that all concerned embark on a regimen of street-level psycho-active drugs. This should either cure everyone’s delusions or else rot everyone’s brains to such an extent that no one involved gives a shit anymore.
    Alternately, if you’re itching to gaze on sexual behavior and sexual mores in all their transcendent glory, your best recourse is a trip to the fever swamp of online pornography. However, at the risk of unfairly maligning my fellow members of the human species, I seriously doubt if anyone will visit that particular swamp in search of esthetic beauty.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Democracy in America: Government By Shout

    The electoral process in America, especially during our quadrennial Presidential extravaganzas, has degenerated in the last hundred or so years into shouting contests during which idiotic slogans, clichés, putdowns, and outright lies are flung at each other by opposing groups like stale cow flops.
    Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one’s political prejudices, the left-liberal arsenal of inane crap comes out on top more often than not thanks in large part to the overwhelming majority of media talking heads and keyboarding fingers — the ones that disseminate said crap — being left-liberal co-religionists themselves
    Here’s the cream, as it were, of one-liner bullshit campaign slogans from recent (20th and 21st century) presidential elections, almost all generated by amoral marketing jackals.
1916, Woodrow Wilson, “He kept us out of war” (Once re-ensconced in office, Wilson immediately took the nation into World War I following which he screwed up the ensuing peace process sufficiently to pave the way for Lenin, Mussolini, Stalin, Hitler, Tojo, Communism, Fascism, Nazism, World War II, and 50 million slaughtered people.)
1932, Franklin Roosevelt, “Happy Days Are Here Again” (Oh yeah? With the collected works of history’s most fatuous economist, John Maynard Keynes, in his briefcase, FDR proceeded to subsidize farm non-production, initiate an array of federal make-work programs, promulgate business stifling regulations, expand the nation’s welfare rolls, increase taxes, kiss organized labor’s ass, and — oh yes — prolong the Great Recession for another eight years until rescued by Adolf Hitler and World War II.)
1948, Ike Eisenhower, “I Like Ike” (So what and who cares?)
1964, Lyndon Johnson, “All the way with LBJ” (All the way where? Vietnam?)
1968, Richard Nixon, “Nixon’s the one” (He sure was.)
1980, Ronald Reagan, “Are You Better Off Than You Were Four Years Ago?”.(Kinda rhetorical considering that the nation had just been treated to four years of Jimmy Carter.)
1992, Bill Clinton, “It's the economy, stupid” (This is easily the best of the lot even though credit for coining it goes to that evil Mongoloid prick James Carville.)
2000, George W. Bush, “A kinder, gentler nation” (This one takes the cake as the most cringeworthy campaign slogan in history. No wonder fat Al almost stole the election.)
2008, Barack Obama, “Change” (Jesus H. Christ. Are people so abysmally stupid that they actually fall for shit like that?)
2012, Barack Obama, “Forward” (If our Jackass in Chief had rolled out the catchword “Backward,” I might have voted for him myself. Better yet, why not be honest and just say, “I am African American. Vote for me or you’re a bigot.)
    Underlying and abetting these ridiculous, intellect-freezing campaign slogans, is a vast septic field of catch-phrases and parasitic memes that are spread among the masses through such vectors as politicians, cause-zealots, and youthful collegiate sheep in the same way that ticks spread lyme disease to unwary hikers. An exchange of these meaningless clichés and buzzwords is, increasingly, what passes for political discourse in American society.
    The way things are going with the Internet, Smart Phones, Facebook, and HDTV, within a decade debates between voters on one side of the political divide and those on the other side will consist of members of the opposing groups seated across from one another at a large fake-mahogany table taking turns shouting sound bites at each other.
    “Right to Life!”
    “Pro Choice!”
    “Gun Rights!”
    “Gun Lobby!.”
    “Glass Ceiling!”
    “Energy Independence!”
    “War on Women!”
    “Drill, Baby, Drill!”
    “The One Percent!”
    “Political Correctness!”
    “Affirmative Action!”
    “Welfare Bunnies!”
    “Old Boy Network!”
    “Income Inequality!”

    The noise will continue late into the night, but will eventually end, as all stupidity must, perhaps when the antagonists run out of their stockpiles of gibberish or else when a moderator adjourns the meeting by calling for Bipartisanship and noting that all present seem to agree that The schools are failing our children.
    And, as the participants straggle out and head for the nearest bar, some of the few remaining members of the audience can be heard saying, “I’m not gonna vote. Both parties are the same,” thus contributing to the great tradition of American representative democracy by fostering the triumph of the worst possible candidates.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Saturday Night Dead

    Does anyone over the age of fifteen with an IQ above 75 really find Saturday Night Live funny?
    (Correct me if I’m wrong, but SNL is supposed to be funny, isn’t it?)
    It’s true that I almost never watch the show.
    For one thing, I’m generally comatose by 11:30 p.m. when current episodes are aired. For another, on the few occasions when I’ve tuned into a rerun on VH1 Classic I’ve lasted no more than three or four minutes before remoting to another channel out of a mix of boredom and disgust.
    So I admit it is possible that due to an amazingly long and unbroken stretch of bad luck I have missed hundreds, perhaps thousands of side-splittingly hilarious SNL sketches as well as hundreds, perhaps thousands of devastatingly witty left-wing political satires.
    Nevertheless, my ignorance, lack of research, and shortage of hard facts will not stop me from tarring the show with sweeping generalizations, namely, that SNL is nothing but a trash-heap of stale, sophomoric, heavy-handed, cliché-ridden, ill-rehearsed, humorless skits scripted by incompetent writers and performed by a coterie of talentless actors. Overall, the show is derivative, boring, childish, and politically bigoted (see Fey, Tina).
    SNL persists because it is an institution, albeit a petrified one. The show died on the vine 20 or 30 years ago and now lies rotting on the ground amid dried-out dog dung in a shabby backyard. It persists because NBC doesn’t have a clue as to how badly it stinks nor any idea of what to replace it with should the stench become too vile for even that network’s executives to bear.
*   *   *
    In its early days, SNL had genuine talent and creative writers, but that was long ago and far away. Gilda Radner died. Chevy Chase moved to richer pastures and got old. Steve Martin suffered an epiphany, decided he was a Renaissance man a la Woody Allen, and took to composing New Yorker essays that nobody reads and making movies that nobody watches.
    And we mustn’t forget SNL’s most famous alum, John “Speedball” Belushi, the heart and soul of SNL’s Golden Age.
    Sure, Belushi had his moments. Sure the Samurai Chef was funny. But how many times can one idea be milked? The fact is, Belushi’s shtick was dying before he was dead. The point is that being overweight and relying on a repertoire of three or four comic facial expressions can only take you so far. It’s a lesson the masterminds at Saturday Night Live can’t seem to grasp.
    The other night I forced myself to watch several minutes of an SNL sketch involving a grossly overweight slob (I believe it was SNL regular Bobby Moynihan). Said slob, clad in pajamas or Dr. Dentons or something, was supposed to be a gigantic baby who kept interrupting a young couple’s attempts to cuddle. At one point Moynihan exited, then re-entered sporting an oversized pair of Bozo-the-Clown eyeglasses, It was an emergency signal to switch channels.
    What next for Moynihan? Perhaps he’ll dye his ass cheeks crimson and moon the audience like a hamadryas baboon. The idiots corralled into the studio each week by the show’s marketing assholes will no doubt crack up on cue when some shill in the wings turns on the “BURST INTO HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER” sign. I’m guessing the climax of the merriment will come when Moynihan pelts the audience with nuggets of fresh monkey shit.
    The Moynihan fiasco carries a message for Lorne Michaels and company, one that’s sure to be ignored: Being grossly overweight does not make one funny. Nor does contorting one’s features, picking one's nose, crossing one’s eyes, or sticking one’s tongue out. Most sentient human beings have stopped snickering at that sort of crap by the time they’ve completed grammar school.
    But I suppose Michaels and the other deadheads at NBC think it’s de rigueur to fill the John Belushi/Chris Farley slot with whatever fat freak they can dig up from the Greenwich Village sewer system. Their comic taste, abetted by their contempt for their own audience, seems to extend only as deep as blubber — the more layers of fat, the more hilarious the comedian. I mean, based on the little I’ve seen of Moynihan, the man could be replaced by a pregnant sea cow without any loss of comic value and with considerable savings in salary.
    This brings us to the beloved Mr. Bill (“Oh noooo, Mr. Bill”), that singularly un-humorous, un-clever, one-joke-repeated-endlessly SNL classic. To put it simply, Mr. Bill is quintessential SNL fodder: cheap, juvenile, and tailored to the crass stupidity of a viewership made up of descendants of the same retards that pretended to find Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In so screamingly funny a couple of generations ago.
     You remember Laugh-In, don’t you? ─ “You bet your sweet bippy,” “Here come de judge,” “Verrrrry interesting,” and, of course, “Sock it to me,” the show’s vulgar, if meaningless, signature catchphrase which Richard Nixon mouthed so famously back in 1968. I mean how could one help but crack up over the wonderful wit exemplified by such boffo lines repeated over and over and over again like a Spinal Tap rock video. I don’t recall ever having so many good belly least not until the Eveready Energizer Bunny arrived on the scene.
    It’s significant that Laugh-In, like SNL, was an NBC production. It is also significant that Laugh-In numbered among its banal stable of joke writers none other than SNL’s creator, the immortal Lorne Michaels.
    Thanks to media hype, lack of competition, and a newly discovered niche audience of burnt-out Woodstock survivors and cretinous eleven-year-olds, Laugh-In, together with its detestable stars, the wood-faced Dan Rowan and the incredibly annoying Dick Martin, was a modest ratings success. Fortunately for the nation, if not the entire free world, the show’s core audience made its belated way through puberty and Laugh-In tanked after six seasons of fake-funny sketches and Martin’s obnoxious, horse-faced smirking
    It is no coincidence that within two years, SNL made its debut. After all, the vital demographic of morons, airheads, and losers had to be appeased. It was a void, so to speak, that needed to be filled, kind of a show biz version of the old saw, “Nature abhors a vacuum.”
    Changes were made in SNL’s format vis-à-vis Laugh-In’s, changes for the better (how could they be worse?). Rather than a steady diet of one or two loathsome MCs. a fresh “celebrity” was recruited each week to serve as host. And instead of costly big-names like Goldie Hawn and Judy Carne, SNL relied on young, relatively unknown talent — so-called “Not Ready for Prime-Time Players” such as Belushi, Radner, Chase, Jane Curtin, and Dan Aykroyd.
    SNL debuted in 1975 and was an immediate success. Surprisingly, however, it was fresh and funny with inventive sketches performed by talented comedians. The core concept of SNL may have been the same as Laugh-In — satirical skits that poked fun at current mores, current fads, and current political and entertainment icons — but the execution was sophisticated, original, and entertaining and its target audience went beyond intellectual rabble to include people whose education extended past middle school and whose comedic sensibilities stretched further than Benny Hill or the Three Stooges.
    But, alas, sic transit gloria mundi. Within a few years Saturday Night Live began its long, slow decline— an unweeded garden that grows to seed — until, at length, it decayed into what we see it now — a fossilized stub of what once was a living organism.
    Sad, but inevitable I guess.
    I suppose no one, not even Lorne Michaels, is to blame.
    I suppose it’s just the remorseless working of things, the fate of all organizations and entities, all societies and all life. As Scheherazade phrased it, the unavoidable intrusion of “The Spoiler of worldly mansions...the Destroyer of all earthly pleasures, the Leveler of mighty kings and humble peasants.”

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Being Old

Ohhh! You cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! Melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness! Ohhh! Look out! Look out! I'm going! Ohhhh – Ohhhhhhhhhh!”
         ─The Wicked Witch of the West's last words in the 1939 film, The Wizard of Oz    
    Each morning, at the inevitable bathroom mirror, a stranger stares back at me.
    Who is that thin-lipped, balding, white-haired, saggy-skinned creature? Why is it looking at me? Who invited it into my home?
    Whatever happened to the dark-haired boy with the easy smile and the sad eyes that used to greet me every morning? It’s been ages since I’ve seen him. I wonder what became of him. I wonder what he’s up to now.
    The clock on the wall keeps ticking and you observe, day after day, year after year — not wanting to believe, but knowing it to be true — the decay of your own body, the collapse of your own features like one of those little apple-head dolls that your wife used to make for the children.
    John Barrymore once said, “A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.”
    I suppose that definition suited Barrymore.
    For me, however, the dreams persist (along with the regrets). It is the terrible understanding that those dreams can no longer be realized that marks the turning point
    You become old when you see that all the doors of all the houses that line the path you have been walking down for so many years are locked, and every alleyway you pass is a one-way street in the wrong direction.
    To be old is to drive down a deserted dirt road in a dark forest that ends in a barricade marked “Oblivion.”
    To be old is to be alone on a down escalator in a empty airport beneath a sign that says “This Way to Nothing.”
*   *   *
    Anyone who says that growing old is a joyful experience or even an enlightening one, is full of shit.
    They speak of one’s Golden Years. As far as I can tell, an evil alchemist changed them into lead.
    I enjoy making people laugh, writing nonsense, satirizing fools.
    But one cannot be humorous, or even angry, all the time. Occasionally, despite efforts, one runs out of laughter, that uniquely human quirk, and finds one’s eyes, despite efforts, to be watering with tears, that other uniquely human quirk.
    It is not just because the end looms or because, like the Wicked Witch, God splashed you with the water of mortality and you are melting...melting.
    Rather, it is an all-encompassing sadness, like morning mist on a distant lake. “The, poverty of autumnal space,”  wrote that sad-voiced poet Wallace Stevens, where “Each person completely touches us with what he is and as he is, in the stale grandeur of annihilation.”
    I suppose it all goes back to the Garden of Eden and its Tree of Knowledge whose fruit we were forced to eat.
    And so, despite furious efforts to forbear and forget, we watch as the boys and girls of our childhood wither and vanish, and we stand helplessly by as our children, from whom we expected eternal youth, gradually alter and devolve — a tinge of gray, a bald spot, a paunch where used to be a flat belly, a crease of sadness on the once unmarred brow of that rose-lipped little girl whose perfect fingers trembled as she poured a tiny cup of tea for you from her doll’s tea set.
    God damn it to Hell!
    If only I could scrub my memory clean with a can of Ajax and a stiff brush.
    If only Time, that river of nothingness, would pause in its merciless flow for a moment or two and let me live — just once, just for a split second — in the eternal present.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

The Ukraine Crisis

Kerry Warns Putin:
“Unbelievably Small Strike”
McCain counsels caution; Buchanan faults Israel
Obama in emergency session with Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, Harry Belafonte, Barney Frank, Jeremiah Wright, Spike Lee

    It is heartening and reassuring to see that the United States is using what little remains of its worldwide geopolitical prestige in an effort to control events in Eastern Europe.
    The nation’s tall, well-coifed, Purple Heart-decorated Secretary of State has interrupted his peace-loving campaign of threats against Israel to fly to someplace called Kiev, the capital of a westerly province of Russia known as Ukraine, to offer several billions of American dollars to keep people there from objecting to the current “migration” of Russian tourists.
    In no uncertain terms, Mr. Kerry told the authorities in Kiev to “mellow out.”
    The secretary pointed out that the U.S. is peacefully grappling with the same sort of problem — an influx of Mexican tourists who so enjoy American hospitality, food stamps, and free medical care that they are reluctant to leave and even invite their children and parents and grandparents and pregnant wives and brothers and pregnant sisters and pregnant aunts and uncles and pregnant nieces and nephews and pregnant girlfriends and drug cartel partners some of whom are pregnant to join them.
    “Don’t fret about your Russian guests just because they are dressed in camouflage and wearing steel helmets and carrying Kalashnikov AK-47s,” Mr. Kerry counseled. “That is simply their traditional national garb, no different than Scotsmen in kilts or elderly American tourists in cargo shorts and short-sleeve shirts with flower patterns. It’s all a matter of nuance.”
    The epicenter of American diplomatic, military, cultural, and speech-making efforts — the strategic heart of American policy — is the Oval Office. Under the bold leadership of President Obama, the U.S. government has initiated a bold program of action starting with a bold decision to “lay” the matter before the United Nations Security Council.
    “I have no doubt,“ Mr. Obama intoned to a gathering of journalists at MSNBC, “that our Russian and Chinese friends will agree with us concerning whatever it is we want to do and forgo their veto powers in the interest of peace, prosperity, and the Democratic Party’s desire to retain control of the Senate next November.”
    Perhaps more important to the administration’s strategic tactics and tactical strategy, however, is the President’s personal “reaching out” to his Russian counterpart.
    Dome of Glass has learned that Mr. Obama has friended Mr. Putin on Facebook and has boldly forwarded a communication to the Slavic Poobah. Here it is, word for powerful word:
Dearest Dmitri:
    I have been told by one of my White House chefs that there is some gossip floating about that several of your countrymen, clad in what seems to be hunting gear, have been spotted wandering around various Ukramian towns, military bases, airports, and cities whose names I can’t pronounce
    This no doubt unfounded chatter has none-the-less peaked Michelle’s and my curiousities somewhat and also some sectors of the American Medea who are hinting that it might be interpeted by some right-wing fascist conservative Republican congressmen as a possible, accidental, minor, unintended, peaceful, invasion of another country.
    Michelle and me, of course, knowing you as well as we do, couldn’t imagine such noughty behavior by someone like you who we consider a good friend but you know how difficult these medea people can be (just Google “Pussy Riot”) and taking a tip from you we are currently implimenting efforts at this point in time to control these unwarranted opinions and thoughts through what Attorney General Halder assures us are perfectly legal and constitutional threats, spying, intimidation, and enemy lists.
    And as you probably know from headlines and TV broadcasts and stuff on the web, I have ordered a big cutback in America’s Army, Navy and Air Force to help balance our budget and pay for food stamps, pre-kindergarten, and free abortions. This should help satisfy you and all those other people who don’t like us at home and abroad that we are a peaceful nation with no intention of defending ourselves should we be attacked by somebody like Arab-type religious people or North Koreans or huge countries trying to re-establish their empires.
     Now trust me, Dmitri, and PLEASE don’t get me wrong and PLEASE don’t get mad at me. I am NOT saying or implying or even hinting that whatever is going on now to the west of wherever you think your country’s borders should be is any of me or Michelle’s business.
    As far as we are concerned, any squabble between and betwixt you and your friends and neighbors in the Ukrame is no business of the U.S. or in anyways wrong or hurtful but me and Michelle wants you to know that if all them rumors are even a teensy bit correct about Russian sportsmen showing up in a city or two that aren’t exactly inside your own country that we are prepared to prove America’s dedication to peace and love by further reducing our military to the point of impotence.
    I hope you will take my gentle, mild, innocuous, well-meaning “nudge in the ribs” to heart, and restrict those Russian tourists of yours to no more than the eastern three-quarters of your neighbor’s country.

With fond memories of Neville Chamberlain and the Sudetenland
Yours in Peace and Love,
Barry O.
*   *   *
    Now let’s get serious for a minute or two.
    Liberals, mindlessly wallowing in their idiotic religion, keep waving the same banner in front of Town Hall again and again and again, refutation after refutation after refutation: “Can’t we all be nicie and kissie and lovie and live in peace with each other?"
    If any of you out there, liberal or not, still have half a brain left, try to get this through your thick skulls::
● America does not choose its enemies, its enemies choose it.
● It is not an option for America to be friends with Russia and Cuba and China and Iran and Venezuela and North Korea and Bolivia. They do not want to be friends with us, not even on Facebook. It does not suit their real or imagined self-interests
*   *   *
     The shambles that is American foreign policy today is an object lesson in what happens when a nation selects an incompetent jackass as its leader.
    To be sure, it wasn’t exactly “the nation” that installed Barack Obama in the White House, but rather a coalition of political, sexual, economic, and racial bigots cobbled together by the Democrat party and embedded in a matrix of food stamps, welfare checks, unemployment benefits, government sinecures, and media propaganda.
    Can the mess be undone?
    Can 20 million black voters be convinced to vote with their brains rather than their skin color?
    Can the various self-defined “disadvantaged” be persuaded not to fall for sound bites manufactured by the heirs of Joseph Goebbels — “War on Women,” “Freedom of Choice,” “The One Percent,” “Big Oil,” “Hope and Change.”
    Pessimist though I am, I’m nevertheless not going to speculate. Stranger things than a rebirth of the American soul have come to pass. Hell, I remember back in the 1950s I would have bet my bottom dollar that the Soviet Union would last forever, that what was left of free Europe would eventually knuckle beneath the Soviet yoke, and that Nikita Khrushchev was right when he prophesied to the Free World, “We will bury you.”

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

P.S. For an excellent and dispassionate analysis of America’s foreign policy failures in Ukraine and elsewhere, read George Will’s recent column, Misreading Putin, and History.

From the Editor’s Desk

    I’ve been alienating friends and family on Dome of Glass and accumulating fatwas from religious leaders in Iran, Libya, the Obama administration, and the NEA teacher’s union for more than four years now.
    All in all, it’s been a wonderfully masochistic experience highlighted by an amazing lack of feedback.
    One reason for the paucity of comments may be the feeling among readers that I’m an obnoxious, conceited, foul-mouthed, overbearing jackass.
    A second possibility is my web host’s policy of forcing readers to decipher an undecipherable jumble of contorted alpha-numeric symbols before being allowed to post comments.
    Nevertheless an occasional message from some fool or other penetrates the barricade. Here are some completely imaginary examples of what I don’t have to put up with:
DEAR DOME OF GLASS: You keep riting ill-informed, viscous things about we hard-working school teachurs. I am a grade-school teachur in a hiely dysadvantaged distrikt of Chicargo. Dispite comming from a hiely dysadvantaged singel-parent family of 13 myself I have stroven long hard hours in my community college to ern a degree in pedagogies. I am a dedicated, hardworking pubic servent and like my pubic servent colleages are devoted to nurturing the intellectualisms and critical thinking skillfulnesses of the yungsters in my langwage skills classes.
    —Mrs. Rev. Wright, Chicargo, Illinoise
Dear Mrs. Wright: Give my regards to the President.

*   *   *

Why do you keep picking on concerned, socially conscious, progressive men and women? You seem consumed with hatred of the unemployed, minorities, pensioners, and the poverty stricken. Shame on you!

    —Percy Dovetonsils, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Dear Percy: You neglected to mention fat people, starving children, polar bears, and Mohammedan taxi drivers.

*   *   *

I enjoy your articles about our friends in the animal kingdom, especially the many delightful anecdotes that you recount concerning these lovable creatures. It is obvious that you yourself are not only an avid conservationist, but a man with deep respect, love, and knowledge of the wonderful furry, scaly, feathery, slippery life forms that share our planet and so enrich our lives and our dinner platters.

    I am thinking of purchasing a member of the animal kingdom to share my home in my declining years (I am 22 and will soon be 37). Which organisms would you say make the best pets? Cats? Dogs? Gerbils? Lizards? White rats? Rabbits? Canaries? Snakes?
—Bachelor Bob, Manhattan, Kansas
Dear Bob: Women

*   *   *

What did John Donne mean when he wrote, “Death be not proud?”

—Curious Georgia, Alpharetta, Georgia
Dear Curious: You’re an idiot

*   *   *

DEER ROME OF BLASS: I have deen byslectic from bearth so I bon’t sqell two goob. My diqqest prodlum iz I can mot tell left fron white so I am allwise quetting lost. Pleas helq!!!!

—Baphled, Bronks, Nu York
Dear Moron: Ask your nurse-practitioner to maim or amputate one of your legs so you’ll have a point of reference. Don’t let her do both or you’ll be right back where you started.

*   *   *

DEAR DOME OF GLASS: Since I was nine years old (I am now 20) I have been having daily — sometimes hourly — masturbation fantasies in which I burst into a schoolroom or nursery or maternity ward packed with children, babies, and women, and use my mother’s hand grenades, Uzi’s, and Kalashnikov AK-47s to slaughter every living thing in sight.

    My mother says it’s a minor anxiety disorder that will go away by the time I’m 50 or 60 years old.
    This Christmas she put a WW II Flammenwerfer 35 flame-thrower under the Christmas tree for me to take my mind off grenade launchers, assault rifles, sub-machine guns, and such. I’ve been having a lot of fun with it roasting squirrels and stray cats in our backyard. Those Germans certainly know how to craft fine machinery!
    I consider myself a kindly, normal young man whose problems began when my second grade teacher, Mrs. Rosenweisowitz, refused to give me a hall pass for the Girls Room because I was a boy and told me that I should “Hold it in” which I was unable to do.
    I am thinking of getting a pet to keep me company during periods when I am not masturbating. What would you suggest?
—Adam Lanza, Newton, Connecticut
Dear Adam: A Burmese python

*   *   *

I’ve “skimmed” through your collection of “opinion” pieces and have concluded that you harbor deep-seated negative feelings bordering on psychosis concerning folks who tend to the “left-leaning” or liberal side of the political “spectrum.”

    Despite your “frequent” grammatical slip-ups and misspellings, you seem an intelligent enough fellow although I find it difficult to believe that you actually attended let alone received a degree from an “Ivy League” university.
    I wonder, however, if instead of “indulging“ in mindless “vituperation” aimed at those who don’t agree with your personal political and “social” beliefs, it would be wiser, maturer, and more civilized of you to exhibit a “tad” more tolerance of other people’s “ideologies.”
    Even though I myself “skew” to the liberal side (my parents are fourth-generation anarchists who emigrated from “Italy” during the Pizza Famine of the 1930s), I believe — and I’m sure you’ll “agree” — that America has room for many divergent political “philosophies.”
    So here’s my “invitation.” Let’s the two of us embark on a “new pathway” in a spirit of mutual respect and understanding.
    As a start, “list” things you dislike most about liberals and things you “like” most.
—Brotherhood, Berkeley, California
Dear Brotherhood: Liberals are assholes.

*   *   *

DEAR DOME OF GLASS: It has been brought to our attention by my lawyers that you have been engaging in a protracted series of insulting statements concerning my physical appearance and acting ability in re my television commercials for the Progressive Auto Insurance Company.

    I’ll have you know that I worked long and hard in The School of Hard Knocks (to coin a phrase) to reach the pinnacle of success and wealth I now enjoy as spokesperson, symbol, and designated love-object for Progressive.
    I particularly resent your insulting comments concerning my physical appearance, having more than once accused me of being overweight and even of having characteristics resembling a female bovine.
    In fact I receive oodles and oodles of fan letters and emails from both male and female admirers who consider my figure to be the heighth of feminine perfection and sexuality.
    An apology from you is in order.
    I am NOT a cow.
    If you do not acknowledge your errors forthwith and agree to refrain from further insults, I have instructed my team of lawyers to bring action against you and your blog for slander, libel, and loss of consortium.
—Flo, Progressive Auto Insurance, Cayman Islands, BWI
Dear Flo: Moo
Norm Mack, Peterborough,

America and Russia — Trapped in the Shadows of the Past

    Back in the 50s or 60s when the Cold War (interrupted by an occasional Hot War) was entertaining the masses, I came across an analysis of American and Russian geopolitical behavior, one that stuck in my mind.
    The gist of the analysis — unfortunately I no longer know its source — was that the motivating factor behind each nation’s policies were separate phobias...fears that had solidified into obsessions over the ages.
    The Russian phobia was encirclement.
    The American phobia was surprise attack.
    Sadly, both phobias continue to this day, perhaps even more intensely than during the Cold War, and though both have metamorphosed into irrational and destructive national obsessions, there is a rationale behind them.
    The great Slavic nation, which today numbers some 150 million, has been savaged throughout history by invasion after invasion — Japan, Poland, England, France under Napoleon, Sweden under Charles XII, Genghis Khan’s Golden Horde, Tamerlane, Hitler’s Wehrmacht...all have taken a crack at Mother Russia...all have left their bloody imprint on the Russian soul.
    The United States, insulated though it is from Eurasian madness by two great oceans, had its security blanket torn away by a number of sudden and traumatic events, among them the Civil War, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and the Islamic-inspired atrocity of September 11, 2001.
    The responses of the two nations to their disparate historical experiences have been what one might expect — tunnel vision focus on the wrongs committed followed by frenzied political, diplomatic, and military actions remarkable for their counterproductiveness.
*   *   *
    Russia under the Czars — and more recently under a succession of dictators highlighted by the paranoid anal-compulsive sadist Joseph Stalin — sought to prevent encirclement by swallowing the nations bordering it. The result of this insane fixation reached its zenith in the late twentieth century by which time the Soviet Union had become a bloated monstrosity stretching across 10 time zones and covering one-sixth of the earth’s land surface. Included in the vast sprawl were some 300 million people, more than 100 ethnic groups, and a veritable Babel of languages. (And all this in addition to the two-thirds of Europe ruled by puppet states controlled by the metallic fist of the Soviet military machine.)
    Now, 20 years after the collapse of the Soviet house of cards and the pseudo-religion, quasi-economic system on which it was founded, the same geopolitical policies remain in effect.
    The fear of encirclement and the consequent obsession and longing for empire still prevail. The difference between Vladimir Putin and Joseph Stalin is one of means, not ends, of personality, not desire. Both were and are prisoners of the same historical delusion.
    In 1832, military philosopher Carl von Clauswitz, wrote, "War is simply the continuation of politics by other means.”
    For comrade Putin, “Politics are simply the continuation of war by other means.”
*   *   *
    As for the United States and its obsession with surprise attack, two recent disasters have turned what was a treatable neurosis into national paranoia — Pearl Harbor and, less militarily consequential but psychologically more devastating, the 9/11 Muslim extravaganza that leveled New York City’s Twin Towers, took the lives 3,000 innocent men and women, and set the Islamic world afire in a joyful festival of AK47 gunfire.
    How does one prevent sneak attacks, foil secret plots, stymie evil-doers before they have a chance to work their devilish wiles?
    Eavesdrop and spy and peep into bedrooms and steam open letters and make boarding an airplane a stop-and-frisk operation and install surveillance cameras and launch surveillance satellites and fly stealth reconnaissance planes over the sovereign territories of other nations and create bureaucracies staffed with a few hundred thousand professional moles.
    It’s true that all this might cost a few hundred billion dollars or a few trillion; but isn’t protecting the nation’s security worth it?
    So what if the rest of the world doesn’t appreciate it?
    So what if the privacy of a few hundred million American citizens is compromised?
*   *   *
    Even before Pearl Harbor, America was obsessed with nosing into other people’s belief’s and other nation’s affairs.
    The exemplar was J. Edgar Hoover and his fiefdom, the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    Americans seem to have forgotten that Hoover and his FBI were sacred cows until the man’s death in 1972, viewed by both Congress and the media with an awe approaching religious adulation. It was only later that disappointment set in when the public learned that J. Edgar used his office to investigate such subversives as Martin Luther King, Jr.and anyone else who didn’t suit his fancy.
    But after the Pearl Harbor fiasco and America’s entry into World War II, the nation’s obsession with rooting out plots and surprise attacks took a quantum leap into the darkness.
    First came the wartime creation of the OSS (Office of Strategic Services) whose mission, quite logically, was to spy on the machinations of the Japs and Nazis. Of course, like all bureaucracies, the OSS, re-christened CIA or Central Intelligence Agency, did not wither away when its raison d'être ended with the defeat of the Axis powers. Instead, like all bureaucracies, it waxed and flourished and grew into the gigantic international snoop and spy machine so beloved of Hollywood script writers and leftwing America-haters.
    Alas, along came 9/11 and, despite the late Susan Sontag’s proof that the murders were caused by George Bush rather than a few brave Islamic martyrs, Washington leapt into action. Soon the country had the shiny new “Patriot Act” a secret interpretation of which spawned yet another immense anthill of snoopsNSA (National Security Agency)to monitor everyone’s emails, telephone calls, hair-dos, and bathroom habits all day, every day, everywhere in the world via spy satellites, secret court orders, warrantless phone taps, and legalized hacking.
    So successful were NSA and its associated alphabet soup of subsidiary agencies in ferreting out the nefarious activities of evildoers around the world, that a nerdy third-rate underling contract worker named Edward Snowden (currently vacationing in Moscow) was able to donate most of the agency’s double secret files to England’s Stalin-worshipping Guardian newspaper.
*   *   *
    There are lessons for both America and Russia contained in all the nonsense — lessons that are sure to be ignored by the steely-eyed realists who sit in the saddles of both nations:
For Russia: One cannot alleviate one’s fear of encirclement by stealing one’s neighbors’ property. The result will only be more neighbors and more encirclement.

For America: One cannot prevent a surprise attack by building a wall of elephants around oneself. The result will only be the proliferation of mice.
Norm Mack, Peterborough,

P. S. A third entry into the world of geopolitical stupidity has risen to challenge the U. S. and Russia — China, whose ancient phobias revolve around conquest and exploitation and whose obsession it is to resurrect the Middle Kingdom, and once again be the dominant power on earth.
    Dear, dear, dear — Where have you gone, George Orwell, the planet turns its lonely eyes to you

A Litany of Bitches III

    The Super Bowl is over, the football Giants stank all season, the Pats got dumped in the playoffs, the weather's been lousy, and a flying squirrel invaded our house yesterday.
    In other words, I’m in a bad mood and when I’m in a bad mood, other people must suffer.
    So here's a collection of things that irk me, culled from my inexhaustible duffel bag of things that irk me.
    My hope is that they will piss you off as much as they piss me off. If they don’t, I hope they’ll stimulate you to come up with things that piss you off even more.

...Fatuous idiots who swath their crappy homes each Christmas with thousands of blinking lights and inflatable Santa Clauses and luminescent Rudolph the Fucking Red-Nosed Reindeers and loudspeakers blaring Jingle Bells Rock and The Little Fucking Drummer Boy in order to show God how much they love Him and His Son. The inanity starts in November and continues until the perpetrators die of diabetes or morbid obesity and the neighbors call the cops to shut down the show.

...Restaurant waiters and waitresses who interrupt your meal every five minutes with, “Is everything all right?” while you’re trying to enjoy your food or carry on a conversation with your date. Once upon a time (as a joke) I responded “No” to the pretty young thing who was waiting on us after her fifth or sixth “Is everything all right?” She was totally stunned and just about dissolved into tears. I spent ten minutes apologizing and swearing everything was unbelievably wonderful and that I was just kidding. Which brings up the question: Why in hell, if she and every other waiter and waitress, never gets negative responses, do they keep on asking, “Is everything all right?”

...Ingenue male actors with stubble
— which is just about every male actor currently plying his stupid trade whether young, youngish, or pretend-young. What the hell do they think that their ridiculous three-week-facial hair adornments contribute to the show?...that the mere sight of male stubble will make a chick cream in her jeans? And what about the stupid actresses playing opposite these asses who feign sexual bliss while his chin whiskers are being ground into various sections of her epidermis?
    Research indicates that this absurd gaylord fashion fad was started by that wooden, stone-faced schmuck Hugh Laurie who earned his living for seven long years by maintaining a three-week growth of stubble while starring in the abominable “House” TV series.
    Y’know, if some of the dumb broads who have to smooch on camera with the stubble boys would tell them to shave and shower, it might put a stop to the nonsense.

...TV commercials with ugly, flabby men dancing and shaking their fat asses in glee over a new insurance policy/fast food item/ pizza pie/shoe insert/automotive junk heap they just bought. What in hell makes the marketing assholes who create these odious, fake-funny 15-second spots think that they’re doing something clever and that once a viewer recovers from his hilarious chuckling fit he’ll race out the door to purchase the crap being flogged? Perhaps it’s the fact that the marketing assholes and their wives and children are ugly, flabby, fat morons themselves who spend their evenings giggling and dancing and shaking their fat butts at each other.

...Animated spokes-mascots that desecrate television screens every five minutes until interrupted by a Zumba or Insanity infomercial.
    I don’t know which is worse
The Eveready Bunny which titillates delighted audiences with its hilarious cuteness by channeling that pompous lump-bodied ass Dan Aykroyd doing his coolio Blues Brothers schtick
The Geico Gecko with its unspeakably adorable fake Australian accent that hucksters Geico’s crappy insurance
The Aflac Duck with its captivatingly lovable quack that’s sure to make us purchase Aflac’s even crappier-than-Geico insurance
The General Automobile Insurance Company’s Little General with his incredibly precious moustache and five-star helmet and darling little baby haunches
    (I would have included the overweight, glaringly white, fake-funny Progressive Insurance cow, “Flo,” in the list except she isn’t least I don’t think she’s animated.)
    Someone should initiate an annual awards event staffed by an elite team of marketing assholes to select the most annoying and idiotic spokes-mascot of the year.

...And speaking of awards ceremonies — just how many of those self-serving, phony-baloney television and women’s magazine extravaganzas must the public endure before bursting into flame?
    Here are some of the entertainment industry trash-award shows that the American public is subjected to each year. (And bear in mind that each of these one-day pigeon-pout outings is preceded by months of hype and followed by months of retrospective analysis.)
Academy of Country Music Awards
ACE Eddie Awards
American Society of Cinematographers Awards
Art Directors Guild Awards
Blockbuster Entertainment Awards
Cinema Audio Society Awards
Country Music Association Awards
Critics' Choice Awards
Directors Guild of America Awards
Emmy Awards
GLAMA Awards
Golden Globe Awards
Grammy Awards
Los Angeles Film Critics Awards
MTV Video Music Awards
National Board of Review Awards
New York Film Critics Awards
Oscar Awards
People’s Choice Awards
Producers Guild of America Awards
Screen Actors Guild Awards
Tony Awards
Visual Effects Society Awards
W. C. Handy Blues Awards
Writers Guild Awards
    One wonders: “Why so many awards shows?”
    One receives the answer: “The more phony award shows, the more bitcoins and bucks to line the pockets of the sleazebags who promote them.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Pat Condell — Atheist Vegetarian Racist

Hi I'm Pat Condell:

I don't respect your beliefs

and I don't care if you're offended


    That’s Mr. Condell’s way of welcoming visitors to his web site:

    How can anyone not love a fellow like that even if he is Irish or English or some other variety of tea-wop.
    Mr. Condell puts out videos with themes varying from religion to politics to politics to religion.
    Here’s the gentleman expounding on Islam, the United Nations, Diversity, and Political Correctness.

    If you'd like another sample of Pat’s work plus a smattering of biographical information check out my previous post, Justice for Obama .

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Seasonal Entertainment Disorder

    Among the miracles of modern medicine are costly new therapies, extremely costly new diagnostic tools, ultra costly new drugs, and unbelievably costly new surgical procedures. Less well known, but just as beneficial, are many new diseases that help support these costly new therapies, extremely costly new diagnostic tools, ultra costly new drugs, and unbelievably costly new surgical procedures. I am proud to say that I suffer from many, if not all, of these ground-breaking new ailments.
    SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, for example, has not only taken its place alongside The Vapors in the pantheon of seriously non-existent afflictions, but has also made me a better man. When I was a lad I thought that nightmares, stomach disorders, and fits of uncontrollable rage during the winter months were due to being stuck in the house with my sister and mother. I now realize that I was suffering from the winter blahs rather than the proximity of insane female relatives.
    Another case is the hearing deficit in my right ear. Before Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom, and their current manifestation, Iraqi Mess. I thought my otic problems dated from the Korean War during which I was required to fire the fucking M-l rifle a few thousand times during basic training at Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania.
    Thanks to medical breakthroughs and New York Times editorial writers, however, I recently discovered that my ear was a victim of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) caused by pulling shit details for ROTC members and other faggots while serving with the formerly all-black 522nd Infantry Battalion (Separate) at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.
    Other newly coined imaginary diseases that I was fortunate enough to contract include Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Hypoglycemia, Gluten Sensitivity, Peanut Butter Allergy, Neurasthenia (Americanitis), and several kinds of Neuroses (Woody Allen Syndrome).
    My latest affliction, one which medical science has not yet recognized, is Seasonal Entertainment Disorder. It is a condition that strikes its victims before, during, and after America’s many holidays. Symptoms include gloom, excessive consumption of alcohol, a yearning for mind-altering substances, and obsessive-compulsive behavior focussed on the constant use of the television remote.
    Causative factors of SED are over-exposure to speeches, editorials, commercials, songs, television specials, and television reruns themed on the various holidays.
    The latest orgy of excess involved civil rights icon Martin Luther King, Jr.
    Although I was never particularly fond of Mr. King’s mustache or his tendency to make speeches that sounded like Sunday School sermons, I have nothing serious against the man. Similarly, I feel nothing but friendship toward Jesus and Santa Claus and St. Valentine and Washington and Lincoln and Halloween and Thanksgiving and Independence and Labor and New Year’s and St. Patrick and Groundhogs and Mothers and Fathers and Christopher Columbus.
    Does the world really need two weeks of civil rights interviews, civil rights clips, civil rights newspaper stories, civil rights history, civil rights editorials, and civil rights television programming featuring Sidney Poitier, Jackie Robinson, Harry Belafonte, and a torrent of white actors pretending to be lawyers who are pretending to rescue black actors who are pretending to be innocent victims of make believe southern bigotry? I mean this very same garbage was dumped on us on MLK Day the year before, the year before that, and the year before the year before that...and will be dumped on us next year, the year after that, and the year after the year after that.
    Give me a break, already!
    Enough’s enough and too much is more than enough!
    Neither I nor anybody, white, black, or in-between, needs to be exposed to this river of crap, listen to this river of crap, watch this river of crap, read this river of crap, be lectured about this river of crap year after year after year.
    It seems to me that a day away from the office for all those hard-working school teachers and government functionaries and postal employees should be sufficient to honor the man’s memory and achievements.
    So, all you assholes in the media:
For God’s sake, Let Martin rest in peace. He’s not a rap star and he’s not Jehovah, Allah, Krishna, Buddha, or the Tenth Incarnation of Vishnu
*   *   *
    Of course, the MLK Day extravaganza is small potatoes compared to other holidays.
    Christmas: Each time the name “Jimmy Stewart” penetrates my brain during Christmas season, I dissolve into a fit of hysteria followed by coma followed by life support. And as for Miracle on 34th Street — my wife had to call 911 after I had a seizure when I accidentally caught a glimpse of the incredibly annoying Edmund Gwenn doing his sappy Kris Kringle shtick.
    Halloween: Though not as lucrative as other holidays, Halloween is even worse entertainmentwise — unless you’re a teenage idiot who orgasms at the sight of several weeks of televised werewolves, flesh-eating zombies, Freddie, Jason, Michael Myers, vampires, blood-soaked starlets, decapitated coeds, mass-murdering psychotics, headless horsemen, pernicious ghosts, Stephen King potboilers, poltergeists, paranormal horseshit, evil dolls, and chainsaw-wielding madmen. But wait...there’s always the heart-warming, maudlin, fatuous Charlie Brown-Linus-Snoopy-Great Pumpkin melange to watch should the surfeit of guts and gore begin to interfere with your digestion.
    Easter: (literally and figuratively). What a deluge of candy-coated animated trash for the little ones — Duckies and Bunnies and Chickies and Eggies and Puppies and Kitties. What any of this inane shit has to do with the crucifixion of our Savior is beyond me. Maybe somebody out there can enlighten me. Lord knows, Charlton Heston and Jeffrey Hunter have been trying their best for decades with their annual Rite of Spring epics inserted ad nauseam amongst the Duckies and Bunnies and Chickies and Eggies and Puppies and Kitties.
*   *   *
    Uh oh...
    I just looked at the calendar.
    Valentine’s Day is rearing its head in newspaper inserts and TV ads. I gotta run out an get my wife a diamond ring or a Mounds Bar or something or other so she won’t think I don’t love her.
    Father’s Day is in the offing. I better steel myself for a televised onslaught of Chevy Chase, Steve Martin, Fred MacMurray, James Stewart, William Powell, Will Smith, Denzel Washington, and lord knows how many other fake daddies. And jeez, please kids, no more electronic crap.
    And come to think of it, what about Memorial Day followed by Labor Day followed by Halloween followed by Columbus Day followed by Veterans Day followed by Thanksgiving followed by Black Friday followed by a month-and a-half of The Little Drummer Boy and Jingle Bells Rock and Fucking Rudolph the Fucking Red-Nosed Fucking Reindeer.
    Hey kids — maybe you can chip in for a Smith & Wesson or a Glock or a Ruger for me on Father’s Day so’s I can end my misery.
    And don‘t fret about funeral expenses. A simple pagan ceremony will suffice followed by burial in the woods back of the swimming pool. (Make the hole deep enough so the damn squirrels can’t get at me.)
    As for an inheritance — not to worry. I’m busy losing everything in the stock market.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

New GPS Apps: Revolutionizing the Driving Experience

    It seems to be the mission of my children, aided and abetted by their significant others, former significant others, acquaintances of significant others, and insignificant others, to drag my wife and me, kicking and screaming, into the awesome wonders of the high-tech universe.
    To this end, despite tears and pleading on my part and despite the documented fact that my wife’s mere presence in the vicinity of a microchip causes it to self-destruct, every gift-giving occasion (and there is an endless, year-round sequence of gift-giving occasions) brings with it a new item or three of electronic crap.
    One recent addition to my stockpile of unused devices, was a GPS.
    As fate would have it, my wife, unaware of the gadget’s function, accidentally picked it up, resulting in the immediate death of the gadget’s internal map. (This loss did not bother me since I had no intention of using the damn thing anyway. As I’ve remarked elsewhere and often, I consider it my unalienable right as a man to lose my way on the road without outside interference...electronic, human, canine, or otherwise.)
    Eventually, however, curiosity got the better of me and I and the GPS visited the Web to see if it could be resuscitated. Soon, with the invaluable help of Google, I arrived at, Capital City of Garminovia, superpower of the far-flung wasteland of Global Positioning.
    A few minutes of random clicking and scrolling led to a dark peninsula of Garmin territory where one could (for a small fee) enhance one’s automotive jollies by downloading a variety of specialized “voice packs” into the GPS to replace the young lady who comes with the machine. Available vocals included Darth Vader, Homer Simpson, Bert and Ernie, Dr. Nightmare, and “Squirrely.” Acoustic samples were provided for each. Darth was suitably ominous. Others were merely stupid. Squirrely, a high-pitched rodent reminiscent of Alvin and the Chipmunks, was incomprehensible.
    Discovery of the voice packs activated the Madoff, or Greed lobe, of my brain. Why restrict the offerings to girlie crap from animated cartoons, Spielberg potboilers, and Sesame Street? What is needed, I realized in an Archimedes-like burst of inspiration, are characterizations that will match the interests and bigotry of the average American imbecile.
    Several weeks of drunken creativity passed as I developed dozens of ground-breaking voice-pack concepts for submission to Garmin’s team of marketing assholes. Below are examples of my work. Royalties should start rolling in any day now.
Upgrade Your GPS!
Download the
 “Mack-Voice of Your Choice”

Voice sample: SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN already, schmuck!...You think you’re maybe Dale Earnhardt, Jr.?...Watch the road!...Stop staring at that shiksa with the big butt...You trying to get me killed, already?...A left turn you should make now across from Burger King...Oy, oy, oy! There you go, right past Burger King! What am I, chopped liver you don’t listen to me?...A Burger King you never seen before?...You call yourself a driver?...I should only live so long!...A U-turn you should make now already...Your no-good father should only be here...Or maybe your poor mother, may she rest in peace...It couldn’t hurt...

Voice sample: You best be’s takin’ yo’ nex’ left, mofo, les’ you wants to be profiled at that pig barricade up th’ highway an’ wind up starrin’ in a Rodney King You Tube...Shee-it, man, watch out fo’ that fat ho crossin’ the highway...Oh, nevah mine, it jus’ some wrinkly ol’ honky bitch shopping fo’ prune juice or somethin’...Aim yo’ bumper, at th’ bitch an’ jam th’ metal to the floor...Hoo, boy, man, lookee how far th’ ol’ ho fly! ..Hey, man, lissen up! It be twelve mile to the next bacon station, so’s if y’ wants t’ shoot up, now’s yo’ chance, mofo...

Voice sample: Okie Dokie Artichokie, there is an absolutely GORGEOUS scenic overlook just a smidge up the road that you simply MUST stop at...and be sure to keep to your right a teensy bit later so you can drop in for a nibble at an absolutely DARLING little Taco Bell...(Remember, though, you naughty boy, cute buns or no cute buns, no touchy touchy that young fellow behind the counter ...and watch those calories — you don’t want to spoil that girlish figure of yours, do you?)...OH. MY GAWD! You went past your turn and now I have to recalculate everything...I could just cry...

Voice sample: Faster, Achmed, faster! You’re falling behind schedule! The aircraft will depart in less than eight gesh and it is still more than 20 nindans to the ticket counter...ALLĀHU AKBAR! You have passed the I 95 cutoff and are now headed like a burning arrow toward the security gate!...Quick, Rihana, give your exploding brassiere to Abdullah who will don it and in turn divest himself of his exploding jock strap and exploding Air Jordans and hand them to you to secrete beneath your all-encompassing exploding burqa...Allah be praised! We have now arrived at our destination...Should the infidel security officer question you, inform him that he is guilty of profiling and shall be reported to Mr. Attorney General Eric Holder for punishment, Allah willing...

Voice sample: Hey, man, like y’know, I mean, like, I think you should make a left turn someplace...Or is it a right turn?...Oh, fuck, who gives a shit...And anyways, what the fuck was I sayin’?...I tell y’what — back into that department store window or movie theater or McDonald’s or whatever it is...I mean I got a strong desire for some Big Macs and French fries and Chicken McNuggets and Egg McMuffins...Y’know what I mean?...Say — what is that Speed-O-Meter thing readin’, man?...I mean you are clockin’ a slow 15 in a 75 mph zone...(Begins giggling) Like damn, man. Tha’s, like, humorous man...I mean look at those flashin’ blue lights behind us...(Starts laughing uncontrollably)...Give th’ sucker the finger, man...(Choking and gasping with laughter)...Hey, like, pull into that lake, man. I mean I can’t hardly breathe)...
Norm Mack, Peterborough,


“If civilization had been left in female hands we would still be living in grass huts”
-Camille Paglia         
    Can you believe a card-carrying Feminist would spout such heresy? No wonder the Steinems and Jongs and kindred Wicked Witches of the West can’t stand her guts.
    It's far from the first time that Camille disagreed with the establishment.
    Back in 1978 it was reported that she "nearly came to blows with the founding members of the women's studies program at the State University of New York at Albany, when they categorically denied that hormones influence human experience or behavior." This and similar incidents led to her departure from the faculty of Bennington College, a trendy, chic, ultra-liberal, ultra-expensive bullshit establishment located in Bennington, Vermont. (Let’s hope Ms. Paglia doesn’t get the Larry Summers treatment from her current academic employer.)
    I was planning to use this quotation by my favorite lesbian in my Quote of the Week sidebar; first, however, I needed to check for accuracy and to make sure the lady actually coined the phrase — the majority of famous quips attributed to famous people (see Berra, Yogi) are misquotes, apocryphal, or are, in fact, the work of Mr. Anonymous.
    A web search showed that the quote was indeed legitimate. It also revealed that Ms. Paglia’s gift for sardonic observation, caustic phraseology, and deep-seated political incorrectness extended far beyond the one-liner that caught my chauvinist pig fancy. This led me to decide that the lady is worth an entire post, not just a throw-away side-bar widget. Her many remarks and insights concerning politics, art, and the human condition, particularly that branch involving the cliché-ridden interplay between the sexes, hit the nail (and the Mack) squarely on the head. When you’ve spent your life, as I have, bucking the platitudes and hackneyed crap of group-think, it’s nice to find a kindred spirit who believes in free thought and free speech and doesn’t knuckle under to the ovine herd mentality of the whining majority.
    I admit I can’t figure out by what circuitous psychogenetic route such an attractive, brilliant, talented broad ended up as a votary of the Holy Order of Lesbos. When you read her stuff, it becomes clear that she actively likes men, respects them for what they are, understands how the sexes complement each other, appreciates that males as well as females often find it a pain in the ass to fulfill the biological role that God or Darwin or L. Ron Hubbard or the Universe has laid out for them. And it’s not that I don’t accept Camille’s taste in sex partners — women turn me on, too — but it does seem a shame that the Paglia DNA should be wasted diddling like-minded chicks instead of spawning progeny who could carry her banner into the future... maybe parthenogenesis is the answer.
    In any event, here are some choice samples of Camille’s provocative wit and dazzling intellect:

Sex and Lust
● Leaving sex to the feminists is like letting your dog vacation at the taxidermist
● If you live in rock and roll, as I do, you see the reality of sex, of male lust and women being aroused by male lust. It attracts women. It doesn't repel them
● Pursuit and seduction are the essence of sexuality. It's part of the sizzle
Men and Women
● There is no female Mozart because there is no female Jack the Ripper
● A woman simply is, but a man must become
● Woman is the dominant sex. Men have to do all sorts of stuff to prove that they are worthy of woman's attention
● Every man must define his identity against his mother. If he does not, he just falls back into her and is swallowed up
● Manhood coerced into sensitivity is no manhood at all
● Men know they are sexual exiles. They wander the earth seeking satisfaction, craving and despising, never content. There is nothing in that anguished motion for women to envy
● When an educated culture routinely denigrates masculinity and manhood, then women will be perpetually stuck with boys, who have no incentive to mature or to honor their commitments. And without strong men as models to either embrace or (for dissident lesbians) to resist, women will never attain a centered and profound sense of themselves as women
● A peevish, grudging rancor against men has been one of the most unpalatable and unjust features of second- and third-wave feminism
● Men are absolutely indispensable right now, invisible as it is to most feminists, who seem blind to the infrastructure that makes their own work lives possible. It is overwhelmingly men who do the dirty, dangerous work of building roads, pouring concrete, laying bricks, tarring roofs, hanging electric wires...It is men who heft and weld the giant steel beams that frame our office buildings, and it is men who do the hair-raising work of insetting and sealing the finely tempered plate-glass windows of skyscrapers 50 stories tall
● The modern economy, with its vast production and distribution network, is a male epic, in which women have found a productive role — but women were not its author. Surely, modern women are strong enough now to give credit where credit is due!
Politics and Policy
● The law should be blind to race, gender and sexual orientation, just as it claims to be blind to wealth and power. There should be no specially protected groups of any kind, except for children, the severely disabled and the elderly, whose physical frailty demands society's care
● Capitalism has its weaknesses. But it is capitalism that ended the stranglehold of the hereditary aristocracies, raised the standard of living for most of the world and enabled the emancipation of women
● It is capitalist America that produced the modern independent woman. Never in history have women had more freedom of choice in regard to dress, behavior, career, and sexual orientation
● Why has the Democratic Party become so arrogantly detached from ordinary Americans? Though they claim to speak for the poor and dispossessed, Democrats have increasingly become the party of an upper-middle-class professional elite, top-heavy with journalists, academics and lawyers
● And what do Democrats stand for, if they are so ready to defame concerned citizens as the “mob” — a word betraying a Marie Antoinette delusion of superiority to ordinary mortals. I thought my party was populist, attentive to the needs and wishes of those outside the power structure. And as a product of the 1960s, I thought the Democratic party was passionately committed to freedom of thought and speech
*   *   *
    Most of what she writes speaks for itself, but I’d like to expand on one comment: “There is no female Mozart because there is no female Jack the Ripper.”
    Is there another feminist on earth — or even another woman — who wouldn’t insist that the shortage of transcendent female geniuses compared to their relative abundance among the opposite sex (Mozart, Einstein, da Vinci, Shakespeare, Norm Mack) is due to discrimination by the “Old Boy’s Club” or “Glass Ceiling” or other slogan-laden rot.
    In fact, the relative shortage of female ultra-geniuses and infra-monsters is precisely the result of what Ms. Paglia implies — men tend to extremes of stupidity or brilliance whereas the female population is significantly more clustered around the norm.
    Looking at things in an unpleasantly mathematical way, bell curve stats (IQ, SAT, etc.) for the two sexes show close agreement at the center — the score representing the ability of the average man or woman
    The real variation between the sexes comes at the less-populated far left and far right of the curves — idiocy at the left, genius at the right.
    Bell curves representing the statistical distribution of female abilities tend be closely grouped around the central peak; corresponding male graphs are flatter and spread out over a broader spectrum. In other words, just as there are more geniuses and Mozarts among the heavier and hairier sex so, too, are there more idiots and Jack the Rippers.

             Bell curves illustrate male (red) and female (green) distributions of
             intelligence. Note larger number of male morons (left), geniuses (right)

    Nevertheless, if you’re a humorless, dull-witted, politically-correct liberal feminist, you’ll see the data as confirmation of the gospel — men are natural-born brutes and morons who have conspired over the ages to keep women from reaching their potential by stunting their intellectual growth.
    And if you suggest, as I do, that the discrepancy at the right end of the curves might be inborn and thus account for the shortage of women in mathematical and scientific professions, you’ll be faced with a mass swoon from the faculty of Harvard University and fired from your position as University President .
    Alas. Since I don’t have a paying job in academia, I can’t be booted from a lucrative professorship or administrative slot. Perhaps some other fitting punishment could be meted out — house arrest, say, or a lengthy Time-out or restriction to an alcohol-free diet. In the meantime, as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to men and women it’s “Vive la différence” as Maurice Chevalier probably said a few thousand times.

Norm Mack, Peterborough,

Life's a Slippery Business

  Roz Chast,
Pearl of New Yorker's Sty

Quote of the Week

“The second item in the liberal creed, after self-righteousness, is unaccountability. Liberals have invented whole college majors--psychology, sociology, women's studies--to prove that nothing is anybody's fault. No one is fond of taking responsibility for his actions, but consider how much you'd have to hate free will to come up with a political platform that advocates killing unborn babies but not convicted murderers. A callous pragmatist might favor abortion and capital punishment. A devout Christian would sanction neither. But it takes years of therapy to arrive at the liberal view.”
P.J. O'Rourke

Beautiful Skinny Girls

Gigi Leung, actress and singer from
Hong Kong. She specializes in CantoPop
(whatever that is), stands 5" 9", and is
37 years old. Click for her in concert

Correct Me If I'm Wrong, But...

    If you value the stomach linings and intestines of yourself and your loved ones (if any) DO NOT under any circumstances consume even the smallest quantity of:
Thin & Crispy
BBQ Recipe Chicken
Frozen Pizza
    This product has been identified by the Federal Hazardous Snake Administration as having a toxicity somewhere between the venom of the Malayan Blue Krait and the African Black Mamba...but without their pleasant taste.

***In case you haven’t heard (lucky you). 260-pound University of Missouri defensive end Michael Sam has admitted he’s homosexual (or if you prefer PC euphemisms, he’s “Come out”).
    The news hit the New York Times editorial board like a bombshell and a strike force of reporters and editors was immediately mobilized. The result, so far, has been a week-long tizzy of front-page stories and opinion pieces dealing with the wondrous event. A year or two or three of brave, progressive, in-depth Pulitzer-worthy features are sure to follow..
    From Norm Mack to the staff of the New York Times: “Dear Sirs: Please go fuck yourselves.”

***In 2003 the New York Times created the position of Public Editor, a post supposedly charged with serving as an independent voice in response to complaints about the paper’s news coverage. Every two or three years since, a new PE has been installed, a sequence marked by the increased geldedness of each succeeding incumbent. The current occupant is an inoffensive and politically amorphous upstate New York editor named Margaret Sullivan.
    During the ten years preceding her incumbency, two commentaries stand out: PE No. 1’s (Danny Okrent's) farewell trashing of the abominable Paul Krugman and PE No. 4’s (Art Brisbane's) defense of the Times’ vendetta against wealthy conservative brothers Charles and David Koch.
    Here’s how Brisbane concluded his discussion of l’affaire Koch::
This brings forward another ingredient in this situation: The Times’s audience. That audience consists of New Yorkers, by and large a liberal population, and national readers, many of whom select The Times because it mirrors their views.
    In other words, Brisbane explained that it’s okay for the Times to lie because its audience consists of people who want to be lied to,
    Ahhh, morality.
    Did it occur to Brisbane  (or anyone on the Times’ staff) that the reason the paper’s audience is overwhelmingly liberal is because no one who isn’t a liberal has the stomach to read it?
    Did it occur to Brisbane (or anyone on the Times’ staff) that if the Times presented facts and opinion honestly and fairly then it wouldn’t have to pander lies and half-truths and distortions to its readership?
    Brisbane’s statement, at once both cynical and stupid, is classic circular reasoning:
    The country’s newspaper of record —  the newspaper that provides “All the News That's Fit to Print” — slants its coverage because after years of providing slanted coverage the only audience that remains to it are readers who demand slanted coverage.

***Here’s a recap of a January 22 New York Post story:
    Kenrick Gray won a $125,000 settlement from the city for being falsely stopped and frisked.
    Mr. Gray liked to brag to his friends about his windfall.
    The name of the officer who stopped and frisked Mr. Gray, was Michael Daragjati.
    Mr. Daragjati liked to brag to his friends about how he had “fried another nigger.”
    Mr. Gray was shot dead Tuesday during an attempted robbery.
    Mr. Gray’s buddy, Noland Whistleton, who was visiting at the time, was also shot dead.
    Darren Brown, the man accused of offing Mr. Gray and Mr. Whistleton, was discovered by police the next day hiding in his girlfriend’s shower. (I assume the water was not on.)
    The late Mr. Gray had a number of prior arrests for drug possession.
    The late Mr. Whistleton was out on $35,000 bail while awaiting trial for attempted rape.
    Between them, the late Mr. Gray and the late Mr. Whistleton had accumulated more than 25 prior arrests.
    Mr. Daragjati is currently in Ohio serving five years in an unrelated extortion case.
    Mr. Brown, the accused thief and murderer, seems to have a relatively clean slate.
    What does one do with a story like this...laugh or cry?

***He doesn’t have dreadlocks; he isn’t known by his initials; his first name is neither weird nor misspelled; he doesn‘t perform the salsa or gyrate his ass after a successful play; he’s never been arrested; he hasn’t fathered any bastards; his body isn’t covered with graffiti; his conversation isn’t peppered with “y’know” and “like” and “I mean” and “y’follow me;” and the media hardly know he exists.
    All he does is complete passes, elude tacklers, score touchdowns, run his team’s offense, and win games.
     And all he is right now is the best young quarterback in football.

                  Russell Wilson

***Front page news from the New York Times November 16:
A Payoff in Waiting
If you’re of retirement age but can put off collecting Social Security, you’ll eventually collect more annually, Tara Siegel-Bernard writes.
    Like I’ve only heard that advice 2,816 times starting when I was born.
    What the fuck is it with that paper?
    What’s their next big scoop?
● Christmas to Arrive December 25?
● Stock Market Sometimes Goes Up and Sometimes Goes Down?
● Many Americans Are Named John?
● It’s Cold Out in the Winter?

***Now that 6 ft 3 in (1.91 m), 319 lb. (145 kg) Miami Dolphin (ex?)offensive tackle Richie Incognito has achieved fame (if not fortune) from his profanity-laden, racially-charged messages to 6 ft 5 in (1.96 m), 312 lb. (142 kg) Miami Dolphin (ex?)offensive tackle Jonathan Martin, the NFL is demanding that Incognito change his name to either Richie Very-Well-Known, Richie Readily Recognized, Richie Familiar-to-Everyone, or Richie Madonna-Gaga.

Little Ritchie (left) and Little Jonathan

***From the New York Times, October 22, 2013:
Skill Gap Among 1-Year-Olds Adds to Push for Pre-K
A study found that at 18 months children from wealthier homes could identify images of simple words they knew much faster than children from low-income families
    Is it conceivable that the average 18-month-old offspring of rich parents is smarter than the average 18-month-old offspring of poor parents?
    Or does even asking such a question result in losing one’s job and/or being thrown into jail by the PC police?

***I know Serena Williams is a great tennis player, perhaps the greatest female tennis player of all time.
    I also know that it’s caddish for a guy to knock a women’s looks ― and totally Non-PC when subject female is black.
Serena Williams is as homely a broad as I have ever watched on the TV screen 

Serena in full cry at the Australian Open
    And when you factor in that fright wig she calls a hair-do and that increasingly massive body of hers, "Homely" morphs into "Butt Ugly."
    Incidentally, what’s the scoop on drug testing in tennis? Federer says it's weak and infrequent..

***Some 140 concussion-related lawsuits involving several thousand former National Football League players are currently enriching attorneys across America as the cases make their majestic way through the morass known as the U. S. legal system.
    Apparently these formerly muscular lads, no doubt inspired by television exclusives, reportorial exposés, and hungry trial lawyers, have awakened to the fact that the game in which they spent their often-lucrative younger years entailed a certain degree of physical risk to various parts of the human anatomy including (prepare yourself for a shock) the skull-case and contents thereof.
    Good Lord! Who would have thunk it!
    I suppose I’m more suspicious than most, but I imagine that I’d sense I might be engaging in a hazardous occupation when my fellow employees sport nicknames like The Assassin, Dr. Death, The Face Cleaver, The Gravedigger, Hacksaw, The Hammer, Iron Head, Mean Joe, The Nigerian Nightmare, The Samoan Head Hunter, The Tasmanian Devil, and Wildman,
    It also seems to me ─ cruel as it may sound ─ that someone who doesn’t realize that butting heads with 350-pound gorillas might disturb his gray cells could have been well on the way to dementia long before his playing days were over.

Video of the Year

    For my money, this is the funniest  video on the Web.
    It’s hardly a secret ─ the 1:21-minute You Tube clip of a dog being tormented by its master has racked up more than 44 million 53 million 63 million hits 89 million 106 million hits, many, no doubt, repeat visits.
    It came my way thanks to my old friend Jane Polley from Reader's Digest days.

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  6. Saturday Night Dead
    Thursday, March 20, 2014
  7. Being Old
    Thursday, March 13, 2014
  8. The Ukraine Crisis
    Thursday, March 06, 2014
  9. From the Editor’s Desk
    Thursday, February 27, 2014
  10. America and Russia — Trapped in the Shadows of the Past
    Thursday, February 20, 2014

The Correct Me Archve

*** Snap Quiz
QUESTION: How can you tell when PBS is holding a Fundraiser?
ANSWER: When they’re showing a program you actually want to watch.

***Arab-American journalist Helen Thomas, who belatedly kicked the bucket July 20 at the age of 92, was a noxious, hate-filled, bigoted, morally corrupt, ultra-left-wing witch whose specialty was spouting diatribes masked as questions at Republican Presidents during White House press conferences. These qualifications have led media flacks, none of whom know a fucking thing about the bitch, to shower her memory with the usual bag of pusillanimous postmortem clichés reserved for left-wing neo-nazis: “outspoken,” “blunt,” “forceful,” ”controversial,” etc., etc.
For the record, Helen Thomas was a vile, sexless, intellectually and physically shriveled harridan, an exemplar of everything rotten in American journalism today. The only decent thing this sorry excuse for a woman ever did in her misbegotten life was to die.
What’s the opposite of Rest in Peace?

***Does anyone know at what point the words “Weird Trick” became synonymous with the words ‘Lying Bullshit?” In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, Weird Trick scam ads, pup-ups, and pop-unders have proliferated on the Web like pimples on a teenager’s face.
Here are a few culled from the first couple of pages of a Google search (along with what I guess the tricks might be)..
Weird Trick that lets you collect silver from practically any bank (Threaten teller with an automatic weapon)
Weird Trick that cuts your power bill by 75% (Move to a hut in Zambia)
Weird Trick that a mom discovered to help you lose weight (Stick your fingers down your throat after you eat)
Weird Trick that eliminates your acne forever (Soak your head in a vat of sulfuric acid)
Weird Trick that gives you beautiful, younger skin (Get a face transplant)
Weird Trick that stops cravings (Kill yourself)
Weird Trick that stops men from becoming rapists (Castration)
Weird Trick that will solve all of your problems (Get divorced)
Weird Trick that makes your penis bigger (Exhibit it under a magnifying glass)
Weird Trick that will make her want you (See previous Weird Trick)
I don’t know what pisses me off more — the asinine rip-off artists who perpetrate these frauds, the asinine idiots who fall for them, or the destruction of what was once a perfectly good English word.

***Rumors are fluttering hither and thither on America’s sports pages that one or more pro football players is about to “Come Out.” The entire New York Times staff, joined by liberal sports writers everywhere, are breathless with adoration as they await this thrilling watershed event.
Well...just for the record...I for one am fucking sick of the charade parade of publicity-seeking faggots and lezzies from one branch or another of the entertainment industry vying to be Coming Out Hero of the Week
I mean, what do they all hope to do? Get shots on the Letterman Show? Publish ghost-written books bragging about their own imaginary bravery? Marry Perez Hilton or Rosie O'Donnell? Run for congress in Massachusetts?
I'm wondering, though ─ if one of the gaylords in question turns out to be a quarterback, has he checked to make sure his center is of similar persuasion?

Lingerie League Pros demonstrate
correct center-to-quarterback handoff
form. Gay or Lezzie? Don't ask, don't tell.

***The following item has been lying around, rotting, in my computer hard drive for several months now and it's time to clean house.
It seems that a Democrat congressman from New York, whom nobody ever heard of, came out in support (quelle surprise!) of the $30-plus billion long-term aid/boondoggle program for Hurricane Sandy victims In the time-honored tradition of left-wing politicians everywhere (i.e., scumbags) he explained his vote by claiming to have heard from a woman whose child cried “every time it rained.” I’m sure he choked back his own tears as he spoke.
Winston Churchill once said, “Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried.”
I used to agree, but I’m beginning to have my doubts.

***Data from television reality programs show that 70 percent of Americans have experienced or witnessed paranormal phenomena (spontaneous combustion, alien abductions, encounters with ghosts, out-of-body episodes, big foot sightings, visitations of the Virgin Mary, teleportation, UFO flybys, and similar asinine bullshit.)
Data from the same sources also show that only grossly overweight people with IQs in the double digits or below experience or witness paranormal events and that 70 percent of the American population is grossly overweight with IQs in the double digits or below.

***Here’s a bit of bigotry from the New York Times. It was featured atop the online page, Monday, February 11, 2013.

After Benedict: Don’t Get Your Hopes Up

Bill Keller was executive editor of the Times from 2003 to 2011. Nowadays he demonstrates his stupidity, malice, and incompetence as a featured Times blogger.
In case you’re wondering what Keller means by "Don’t Get Your Hopes Up," here are some examples.
The Catholic Church will continue to...
● Refuse to consider married lesbians for Pope, thus ruling out Rosie O’Donnell
● Use the words "Jesus" and "God" in church services
● Deny that abortion is a God-given right
● Discourage female parishioners from attending mass topless
● Reject Jay-Z’s Hip Hop version of Gloria In Excelsis Deo
● Require girls and boys to dress neatly in parochial school
● Refuse to admit that the only God is Allah and that Muhammad is his messenger

The head was taken down rather quickly and replaced by "After Benedict XVI."
Keller’s successor as Executive Editor, Jill Abramson, explained. "It was a silly typo," she said. "The headline was meant for a sports story about St. Louis Cardinal outfielder Adrian Beltrán ― ‘After Beltrán: Don’t Get Your Hopes Up.’ I don’t know how it got onto Mr. Keller’s piece. It might have been a computer glitch," she said. "but personally I think it was the work of a right-wing hacker. A committee has been formed to investigate."

***If you want to get ahead in the world, it pays to be fast on your feet. The following incident in a Florida supermarket illustrates the point:

A man wants to buy half a head of lettuce. The young man in charge of the produce section tells him that they sell only whole heads of lettuce. The man persists and demands to see the manager.
The kid walks to his manager’s office. "Some asshole wants to buy half a head of lettuce," he tells the manager. Just as he finishes the sentence, he turns to find the customer standing right behind him,
"And this gentleman has kindly offered to buy the other half," he quickly adds.
The manager approves the deal, and the man goes on his way.
After he’s gone, the manager claps the boy on his shoulder, "I was impressed with the way you got yourself out of that situation." he says. "We like people who think on their feet here. Where are you from, son?"
"Green Bay, Wisconsin, sir," the boy answers.
"Why did you leave Green Bay ?" the manager asks.
"Sir," the boy replies, "there's nothing but whores and football players up there."
"Really," says the manager. "My wife is from Green Bay ."
"No shit," the kid says. "What position did she play?"

***This item appeared near the top of the digital New York Times page on November 20:

Tax Talks Raise the Bar
for the Richest Americans
The changes being discussed in Washington would take the biggest bite from the highest earners.

I’ve taken the liberty of underlining the word "earners."
Look, all you morons out there who want to tax the super-rich: If a man keeps $10 billion in gold bullion in his cellar vault, owns five million shares of Apple, possesses several original Da Vinci’s, drives a Lamborghini, and has mansions around the globe and you raise his income tax to 100 percent, do you know how much tax that man will pay?
Can you grasp that fact?
The income tax does not tax wealth, it taxes income.
So you think we should confiscate wealth?
Good for you.
Welcome to Nazi Germany.

***A few weeks ago I ran a post titled Liberalism is a Religion.
I presented, in anecdotal form, a hallmark of the religion ─ its practitioners’ way of steering discussions about large-scale problems (e.g., the homeless) into heart-rending tales of individual suffering (e.g., a single bag lady on a single Manhattan sidewalk).
This same sort of fallacious, not to say invidious, nonsense was rolled out in the New York Times October 14 in the shape of a column by Nicholas Kristof, one of Pinch Sulzberger’s harem of left-wing odalisques

A Possibly Fatal Mistake
By Nicholas D. Kristof
An old friend from college is fighting for his life.
His story underscores why this election matters

In his column, Kristof presents the case of a buddy from his Harvard days who is dying of prostate cancer. With the iron-clad logic of the criminally liberal, Kristof reduces the entire issue of Obamacare to this single instance of disastrous decision-making by one man.
The story? Not only did Kristof’s buddy deliberately choose to forego private insurance, but, despite symptoms of prostate trouble that would scare the living shit out of any sane person, the same buddy resisted seeing a urologist until it was too late.
In short, the friend was too cheap to continue his medical insurance after he quit his job, too cheap to ante up for a physician with his own bread, and, presumably, too well-to-do to check in as a Medicaid patient.
Kristof’s conclusion? The responsible among us must be forced to ante up so that others, especially Harvard grads, can be rescued from their own cupidity and stupidity.

***Blessedly, debate No. 1 between Barack and Mitt is over and done with.
I watched for about 10 minutes, got bored, and switched to the Yankees-Red Sox game. During my brief sojourn I didn’t notice any particular weakness by either candidate beyond the usual mist of halt-truths, evasions, and bullshit that is de rigueur in affairs of this sort.
Morning-after media analyses, however, liberal and conservative alike, seemed unanimous in awarding victory to Romney while implying that Mr. Obama was lost in space without his trusty teleprompter by his side.
From the little I know of him, the President seems a decent sort who would make a pleasant dinner companion even if he is half white. But if the pundits are correct, there’s a simple explanation for Mr. Obama’s debate failure ─ and I’ve said it many times before:
Barack Obama is stupid.
The ability to make good speeches and chat up voters is not an indication of brilliance; it is an indication of being able to make good speeches and chat up voters.
Speechifying is a Talent. Why anyone should confuse it with intelligence or the ability to govern coherently is beyond comprehension.

***I get a pang of pleasure every time I hear of the death or injury of an ATVer or Snowmobiler.
It’s the same sensation I get when an Air Force drone nails an Al Qaeda fanatic
These mobile chain saws have only one purpose ─ to give obese men, intellectually-challenged obese teens, and the occasional delusional obese female access to the woods and fields and pristine back country of America, areas they’re too lazy or too fat or too stupid to hike to.
I suppose the Japs who manufacture and export these machines are taking revenge on us for kicking their asses in World War II. (I wonder how many ATVs are allowed to tool around Mt. Fuji or how many Snowmobiles are permitted to race up its snow-covered peak on any given Sunday.)
To hell with gun control. What’s needed is legislation outlawing these motorized assaults on the environment and good taste.
Is there something in the Bill of Rights that says we have to tolerate this kind of crap?

***News Flash!!!

Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift have confirmed that they were wed in a private ceremony last Halloween and that Taylor has just given birth to twins ─ a boy and a girl.
The happy couple has named the new arrivals Ken and Barbie

***For all you would-be motorcyclists out there here's a great instructional video on what bike to buy, how to equip it, and how to ride it in order to be maximally cool and attract the best quality motorcycle chicks with the hottest stretch marks and saggiest boobs.
The clip's a little long (seven minutes plus), but you'll find it well-worth your investment of time.

***Here’s the New York Times take on the June 5 Wisconsin election:

Wisconsin Vote Underscores Challenges for Democrats
The campaign to oust Gov. Scott Walker was heavily aided by President Obama’s party, his campaign team and his labor allies, but proved ineffective against a well-funded and organized Republican apparatus.

Question: In all the long, despicable history of New York Times shit journalism has the Democrat Party ever lost an election on the basis of an issue?
Question: In all the long, despicable history of New York Times shit journalism has the Republican Party ever won an electron for any reason other than machine politics and money?
Obama’s party.and his labor allies aided the anti-Walker campaign.
No kidding...
What party? You mean the Democrats?
What labor allies? You mean the fat-cat teacher unions and out-of-state Big Labor?
What aid? Bubble-gum wrappers and helping old ladies cross the street?
The fucking unions and Hollywood, and the DNC and Democrat super-PACs poured millions upon millions into their crusade of greed and lies.
The New York Times, is a moldering pile of liberal horseshit. Only fools and fanatics buy into the paper’s hypocritical trash

*** I’ve been inserting a Facebook plug-in on my posts for the past few months, but as far as I can tell nobody gives a fuck so I’m going to stop bothering.
Not sure what this implies with regard to Facebook’s future profitability and, therefore, its IPO value ─ I, personally, do not understand how the company, despite its vast audience, can become another Google-like gold mine. On the other hand (or foot or kidney) I felt the same about when it first went public.
A negative vote from Norm Mack may be a signal to investors everywhere to buy, buy, buy.

***Yet another stunning page-one pronouncement from the New York Times, this one courtesy of food activist Mark Bittman.
Under the banner "School Breakfast, the New Food Fight" the following subhead pins the proverbial tail on the well-known donkey’s ass::

We should work
to prevent hunger
and obesity

    Them’s fightin’ words, Mark!
    That’ll put the lie to all those meat-eating, right-wing neo-Nazi homophobes who want to starve our children to death by making them as fat as Walmart mothers-in-law.
    hank God for the fearless New York Times and their brave columnists!

    ***Funny...I can't figure it out...
    Ever since the Super Bowl I've had this unaccountable urge to rush out and buy a Fiat 500 Abarth.

    FYI: The incredibly gorgeous girl in the video is 26-year-old Romanian model Catrinel Menghia.
    Here's a translation of what she's saying (courtesy

    What are you looking at, Huh!?
    What are you looking at?! (slap)
    Are you undressing me with your eyes?
    Poor guy…you can’t help it.
    Is your heart beating? Is your head
    Do you feel lost thinking that I could be
    yours forever?

    ***A few days ago the Los Angeles Times was handed 18 photographs of American soldiers posing with the remains of dead Taliban and generally behaving like barbarian swine. The Pentagon requested the pictures not be published because they might incite Moslem rioting. The Times published.
    I believe the paper was justified. That’s what a free press is supposedly about.
    As the editors put it ─ after acknowledging the likelihood that the photos would inflame anti-American feeling ─ "At the end of the day, our job is to publish information that our readers need to make informed decisions."
    In 2005, the Los Angeles Times refused to publish some rather innocuous Danish cartoons depicting Mohammed that had inspired a typical murderous Islamic spree. The Times justified the censorship by saying the drawings might incite Moslem rioting.
    Is there a more perfect example of the hypocrisy and cowardice that characterizes American media?
    The Los Angeles Times did not publish the Mohammed cartoons because the editors were terrified they would become targets of Moslem retaliation. .
    They did publish the Taliban photos because they knew the U. S. military wouldn’t retaliate.
    How proud the Times reporters and editors must be as they look forward to another Pulitzer in recognition of their intrepid reportage.
    Journalism is a profession of whores.

    ***I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody well sick of all the liberal crap being vomited from Washington about Wall Street this and Wall Street that and Wall Street sucks and Wall Street is stealing money from all us good, hard-working, unemployed Americans.
    For Chrissake already, Wall Street is a fucking street, and a narrow one at that with traffic restricted to emergency vehicles and residents of the White House. It is not a Scroogy old man with pince-nez gloating over his hoard of gold and plotting how to rob the 99% of their hard-earned unemployment checks. That would be Warren Buffet or Barbra Streisand.

    Evil ca;pitalist swine (left), attractive capitalist swine
    (right0. Neither is Wall Street. Note pince-nez, however.

    Face it ─ Wall Street is paved in asphalt, has concrete sidewalks, its gutters contain a traditional New York City display of trash, and I can assure you from personal experience, that there is not a mean bone in its body.
    But none of that is going to stop Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid, or Jeanne Shaheen, (when she’s sober) from railing against the helpless little lane.
    Dome of Glass, therefore, am going to contact our congressman ─ as soon as we finds out who they is ─ and demand that he, she, and it introduce a bill in Congress to change the name from Wall Street to Barack Obama Road or Barney Frank Alleyway or Ted Kennedy Bridle Path.
    That outta put a stop to all the nonsense!

    ***During an appearance on the Letterman show a few days ago, raving lunatic newsman Keith Olbermann explained that he had been fired by Current TV (Al Gore’s grubby little hyper-liberal opinion channel) because he was like a $10 million chandelier without a house in which to hang. (He meant to say without a whorehouse in which to hang, but screwed up the line.)

    Keith Olbermann (left) explaining to Dave, "I am a
    chandelier, I tell you, a $10 million chandelier!"
    (Click pic to enlarge.)

    Olbermann’s session on the show ended prematurely after he began reciting a poem of his own composition ─ "Shall I compare me to a summer’s day?/I am more lovely and more brilliant..." Letterman gestured offstage and several burly nurses subdued the foaming Olbermann with tranquilizer darts, strapped him into a gurney, and carted him off to Bellevue.
    With the departure of its star anchorman, Current TV lost no time in replacing him with former New York Governor and leading hooker-fancier Eliot (call me john) Spitzer.

    ***The dread word "niggardly" has again reared its head (or headed its rear) this time from out of the mouth of a card-carrying DEMOCRAT.
    Speaking on MSNBC, Ohio senator Sherrod Brown, a WHITE man (i.e., a honky) chastised Congress for being NIGGARDLY in its treatment of veterans.
    Some apologists claim the left-leaning senator was unaware the word has been redefined by the PC police from its ancient meaning of "stingy" to the modern "behaving like a nigger."
    I don’t buy into that crap. The man is obviously a neo-Nazi swine deserving of the severest possible punishment under the hate-crime statutes of this great land. Removal from office followed by a sound thrashing at the hands of Al Sharpton, Valerie Jarrett, and Jesse Jackson and 24 hours of taped speeches by President Obama are the least he deserves.
    But perhaps some good may come from this shocking incident. Niggardly is far from the only racially, ethnically, religiously, sexually insensitive word in the language.
    If you are of German extraction, how could you not but be offended by being asked if you take sauerKRAUT with your hotdog, or by being called HUN by your girlfriend?
    Suppose you’re Italian, how would you feel if you were given a Burger King WHOPper or invited to visit New GUINEA; or if Hispanic, by someone suggesting you use SPIC and Span to clean your linoleum?
    Imagine the hurtfulness for a gay executive when his boss tells him not to QUEER the deal or for a Japanese gentleman when he overhears some roundeye saying that crime must be NIPped in the bud or a rock climber in Alaska crassly remarking that "there’s a little NIP in the air."
    Try to put yourself in the shoes of an Asian-American housewife when a plumber informs her of a CHINK in the bathtub that needs repair...or an African-American lad whose teacher tells him that his work SHINES.
    And what of our Hebraic countrypersons who are bombarded daily with words and phrases such as JEWelry, JUnior, JUry, and "DJOU see the boobs on that chick?"
    So listen up good, all you Liberals out there: It’s time to call a SPADE a SPADE, to roll up the sleeves on your little cashmere wool sweaters, and to get to work. There are so many wrongs to right and so much print space and bandwidth in which to do it.

    ***William C. Rhoden, a sportswriter for the New York Times and one of the few black journalists employed on the paper, is a man who pole vaults into bed each night for fear that some white bigot lurking beneath might grab him and rape him.
    Here’s an observation from his latest column:

    "When was the last time a young, untested professional African-American athlete received the type of adulation Tim Tebow and Jeremy Lin have seen this year?"

    Forget Tebow ─ he’s taken as much flak as he has praise for his outspoken Christianity. Tebow is window dressing. Rhoden’s target is Lin.

    William Rhoden Jeremy Lin
    What pisses Rhoden off is that a polite, young, talented, self-effacing Chinese-American kid from Harvard has dared intrude on the African-American preserve that is the NBA. Motivated by a racially-tinged mixture of envy and bile, Rhoden hopes to spoil one of the few genuinely heart-warming stories to emerge this year, a story that has captivated Asians, Americans, and sports fans everywhere.
    Rhoden isn’t worth the time, effort, and energy it would take to lampoon him.
    He, the paper he works for, and the idiots who read his trash are self-satires. The man is a race-hustler. He butters his bread with lies about anyone who isn’t black.

    ***After Super Bowl XLVI, when a few asshole fans began shouting insults at her about her husband Tom Brady, Brazilian supermodel, actress, UN goodwill ambassador, diet guru, and new mommy Gisele Bündchen, shouted right back:
    You need to catch the ball when you're supposed to catch the ball. My husband cannot fucking throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time."

    Gisele ─ who else? (Click to enlarge)
    Right on girl!
    I’m a Giant fan, but that’s what I call standing up for your man.

    ***I’ve commented previously on the IVR (Interactive Voice Response) fad, an amazingly absurd technology that replaces a simple push on a phone button with a protracted and pointless conversation with a female automaton. This pervasive and nonsensical bullshit exists because an army of marketing assholes concluded that "IVR be cuttin’ edge an’ ever’body am doin’ it so us has got to be doin’ it too...duh."
    In a similarly asinine vein more and more news-oriented web sites (e.g., Drudge and USA Today) have rolled out Auto Refresh, a Medieval torture device that causes the page you’re watching to vanish every minute or two, then, (after a delightful pause to allow your blood pressure to rise) gradually reemerge.
    Once again, following a few thousand meetings, the marketing assholes who run the corporate world merged their tiny brains and came up with this marvelously inane idea, upon which the leading cretin among them was assigned to draft a form email to be sent to all Chief Executive Morons:

    Uhhh, duhhhh...Boss Man or Boss Lady as Yous Cases Might Be.

    Uuuuhhh...Us marketing assholes been tinkin’ hardly and us agrees dat sum kinda AutoFrescha ting am gonna make peoples tink dat yous web sight is right on top of all da latest news stuff becawse ever’ time th’ page shuts off dey’ll...duuuhhh...tink yous is postin’ sum kinda hot new news tip stuff when yous aint. Y’followin' me?

    Of course, for you hundreds of millions of internet users who feel that Auto Refresh is infuriating crap, you can always take action. For example, email your thoughts to . In a month or two you’ll hear back....nothing.
    Is there an alternative? Sure. Just resolve never to watch fucking Drudge or any other Auto Refresh site again..

    ***In a speech Monday, Attorney General Eric Holder said that voting rights for "minorities" are under assault. His chief complaint was that some states require voters to provide ID at the polls.
    For the sake of clarity, Dome of Glass offers this translation of Mr. Holder’s remarks:
    "Some states are preventing illegal immigrants, prison inmates, underage juveniles, dead people, and African-Americans with multiple identities from voting for Barack Obama."

    ***Lost in the pointless hoo-hah concerning the whereabouts of Ann Dunham at the time baby Barack vacated her womb, is a far more significant question: Why have Obama, his enablers, and his lawyers quashed disclosure of any objective information concerning his education, test scores, college theses, scholarly articles (or lack of same), scholarships, and academic performance?
    When a man and his camp followers invest major amounts of time, money, and financial resources in preventing the disclosure of what is, for most of us, totally innocuous information, the inescapable conclusion is that the man has something to hide.
    Among undisclosed documents and data:
    ● LSAT (Law School Admission Test) scores
    ● SAT (Scholastic Aptitude Test) Scores
    ● GRE (Graduate Record Examination) scores
    ● AFQT (Armed Forces Qualification Test) scores
    ● AGCT (Army General Classification Test) scores
    ● IQ test scores (routinely given to grade-schoolers)
    ● Achievement test scores (routinely given to grade-schoolers and high-school students)
    ● Records from kindergarten, grade school, high school, college, and law school
    ● Columbia University thesis
    ● Scholarships (if any)
    ● Scholarly articles (if any)
    ● Mentions in law reviews (if any)
    As I suggested in a prior post, long before Donald Trump started shooting off his mouth, the answer to this obfuscation is obvious.
    The man who was elected President in 2008 is a cardboard cutout, a puppet, an ignorant manipulandum who rose through the ranks of academia and politics via affirmative action, political pull, and the machinations of vultures like Rahm Emanuel, David Axelrod, Valerie Jarrett, Khalid al-Mansour, and Bill Ayers ─ people whose sole interest was to ride the Obama hobby-horse into power regardless of the consequences to the country.
    To say that Obama is arrogant or elitist or demagogic or a socialist is nonsense ─ the man doesn’t have the intellect to be any of those things.
    Barack H. Obama is a plain, out-and-out, natural-born ignoramus whose dim mind fancies that the American people are as stupid as he is.
    So far he is being proven correct.

    ***The New York Times, in a despicable exhibition of arrogance, bias, and intellectual corruption, hired the whining, brain-dead, little left-wing wimp Michael Kinsley to review President George W. Bush’s best seller, Decision Points.
    Be prepared for a shock. Kinsley didn’t like the book! What a fucking surprise!
    What plans do Sulzberger, Keller, et al have for future assignments? Ann Coulter to review Darwin?...Paul Krugman to critique Glenn Beck?...Katie Couric to discourse on Sarah Palin?...Chrisopher Hitchens to analyse the Old Testament?

    From Kinsley’s review:
    Bush’s policy [on stem cell research] continues to do damage by leaving the impression that stem cells are controversial and require some sort of compromise between science and morality.
    From the European Consortium for Stem Cell Research:
    Because a single, well-identified type of cell is affected in Parkinson’s disease, stem cells offer great potential for treatment.
    And this news item:
    In December 2001 Michael Kinsley announced that he has been suffering from Parkinson's disease for eight years.

    Let me sum up Kinsley’s belief system: "When it comes to my own skin, my own life, and my own well-being, morality can go fuck off."
    If this sorry excuse for a man had an atom of ethical fiber in his minute soul he would have recused himself as a reviewer for being hopelessly biased. But minor considerations such as ethics, fairness, intellectual honesty, journalistic standards (an oxymoron?), and common decency have never interfered with a true Liberal’s readiness to prostitute himself for a few dollars ─ nor with the New York Times readiness to cough up the 50 bucks per needed to purchase their scrawny butts.

    ***The New York Times hit the nail (or Libyan) on the head October 21 with an editorial that is sure to stand alongside "Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus" and "Go West Young Man" in the Pantheon of Universal Inanity.
    While the civilized world (and Muslims as well) were dancing joyfully over the mutilated corpse of Muammar el-Qaddafi , the Times’ editorialists came swiftly to the aid of the nascent republic with profound and insightful advice. "Libyans must channel their passion into building a free and productive country" the headline screamed atop the NYT web site.
    Ohhh....My...God! Why didn’t I think of that!
    And here I was about to tweet the transitional Libyan government advising it to set up a repressive tyranny in their newly liberated tract of sand and clamp down on any signs of growth, prosperity, or happiness.
    Thank God for the New York Times! The newspaper of record deserves every Pulitzer Prize and Order of Lenin it has ever received or ever will receive.
    And there’s more good news! The Times has dispatched renowned columnist Paul Krugman and his sexy co-columnist Maureen Dowd to the desert non-kingdom to help the nation get on track for receiving massive American aid by ensuring that their camel-herding-based economy collapses.

    ***By coincidence, George Will's September 15, 2011 op-ed column, "All in the Federal Family," echoes my post of the same date, "In the Beginning Was the Word." Mr. Will, a well-known and respected syndicated columnist, writes:

    In societies governed by persuasion, politics is mostly talk, so liberals’ impoverishment of their vocabulary matters. Having damaged liberalism’s reputation, they call themselves progressives. Having made the federal government’s pretensions absurd, they have resurrected the supposed synonym "federal family."
    Having made federal spending suspect, they advocate "investments for job creation," a euphemism for stimulus, another word they have made toxic

    In Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Lewis Carroll describes Alice’s trial by a pack of cards led by the tyrannical King and Queen of Hearts.

    "Hold your tongue!" said the Queen, turning purple.
    "I won't!" said Alice.
    "Off with her head!" the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.
    "Who cares for you?" said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) "You're nothing but a pack of cards!"

    Friends, there is no need to knuckle in to a limp-wrist cabal of timorously vicious assholes.
    It’s time and past time to take up arms against liberalism’s war on the English language. Liberals are nothing but a pack of cards.

    ***Somebody named Hilton Als (with a name like that you just know he’s gay), in a paean to late fag-hag playwright Wendy Wasserstein in the September 12, 2011 New Yorker, observed that Wasserstein belonged to "that generation of playwrights [that]...sent up institutions like heterosexuality and marriage."

           Wendy                      Hilton
    I don’t know Wasserstein’s oeuvre from a hole in the wall nor do I care to; nor do I know to which planet she sent up the various targets of her displeasure.
    Neither do I know Mr. Als and his oeuvre (if he possesses any) nor do I care to.
    What I do know is that anyone who refers to heterosexuality as an institution is an illiterate asshole not to mention a paying member of the Church of Gayness.
    As President Obama might say and often does: Let me make myself perfectly clear:

    ● The Smithsonian is an Institution.
    ● Slavery is an Institution.
    ● Harvard is an Institution.
    ● Marriage is an Institution.

    But Heterosexuality?
    Is a Vagina an institution? Is Testosterone an Institution? Is Love an Institution? Is Masculinity an Institution? Is Hunger an Institution? Is an Erection an Institution? Is Sexual Intercourse an Institution? Is Death an Institution?
    To pursue Hilton’s logic, I guess he considers Fag-Haggery, Homosexuality, and Pedophilia to be Institutions as well.
    What a friggin’ jackass.
    [And yeah, I did a Google check and Mr. Als is indeed gay. So now we know why the New Yorker hired him.]

    ***I don’t know much about Jon Huntsman, former Utah governor and Jonny-come-lately to the crowded field of Republican presidential hopefuls, but judging from the quantity of front page space devoted to Jon in the New York Times, he is Liberaldom’s John McCain/Bob Dole straw man of choice for the current election cycle.
    Mr. Huntsman is trim, moneyed, and Mormanish with distinguished graying hair, a cute first name, and no discernable moral or political convictions that might get in the way of a sound thrashing in 2012 by Pinch Sulzberger paramour, Barack Obama.

    ***The last space shuttle has, supposedly, made its final flight. I guess NASA and the D.C. bureaucrats will now busy themselves with some new scheme on which to squander a few trillion rapidly depreciating U.S. dollars ─ maybe a manned flight to Jupiter to investigate a mysterious black monolith that recently landed on the moon.
    Even when I was an aerospace engineer at RCA,
    I didn't see much purpose in burning up vast quantities of fuel in order to shoot Americans into space except, perhaps, to beat the Russians to the punch or to prevent an army of technicians and scientists from going into marketing or becoming hedge fund managers.
    Yeah, yeah, yeah....I know...we might not have had space blankets and zero-gravity crappers without the Apollo program, and we certainly wouldn’t have been treated to Neil Armstrong fucking up his little speech when he set foot on the moon. (If it had been Obama, he would have had a teleprompter to help out.)
    As I mention in a recent post, the Englishman George Mallory was keen on climbing Mt. Everest because it was there.
    That’s about the long and short of why we send men into space ─ with one important difference: Mallory had the right to do anything he wanted with his own life and fortune no matter how stupid, but ferrying people back and forth from space platforms or propelling them to the moon, mars, or whatever, involves absurd amounts of time, resources, and taxpayer money.
    In the future, let’s stick to using outer space for what God intended ─ to provide TV service to Uganda, Antarctica, and New Hampshire, to spy on the North Korean missile program, and to help female drivers find their way home after a few too many in the local bistro.
    This country should get the hell out of the manned space flight business. It’s a total loser. And if, 20 years from now, we wake up to learn that Mao Zedong has become the first mummified Chinese tyrant to land on Uranus, who gives a good goddamn.

    ***I see that CNN has cancelled liberal whore-master Elliot Spitzer’s "In the Arena" bullshit-fest, itself successor to the previously cancelled "Parker-Spitzer" bullshit-fest co-starring pseudo-conservative dishrag Kathleen Parker.

           Kathleen and Eliot in happier times.

    When Parker was dumped a few months ago, I advised CNN to pair Spitzer with a conservative female who didn’t feel impelled to preface her every observation with "I may be wrong, but..." or "Perhaps your right, however,..." or "In my opinion, Eliot..." Not surprisingly, CNN’s management didn’t heed my advice.
    After all, folks, faithful members of the Church of Liberalism, those tingly-legged souls who control the media, would happily see their organizations wither and die rather than allow an opposition spokesperson to enter their crumbling cathedral.

    ***Plaxico Burress, the wide receiver who caught the winning touchdown pass in Super Bowl XLII that ended the New England Patriots perfect season, has been released from prison after serving two years on a gun charge.

    Plaxico's Super Bowl-winning catch for the Giants

    You may recall that Plaxico managed to shoot himself in the thigh in a New York City nightclub in 2008. As the tale goes, he had tucked his Glock semi-automatic into the waistband of his sweatpants. Not surprisingly, the gun began sliding down his leg. Not surprisingly, he attempted to stem the descent. Not surprisingly, he accidentally pulled the trigger.
    A loud bang ensued followed by EMS workers, police, bail postings, lawyers, sentencing, and a speech by Mayor Bloomberg.
    Now that Plaxico has paid his debt to society and is looking for a job, he has pledged to assist the Urban League and the Brady Center to Prevent Gun Violence. "Guns don’t help anybody," Plaxico is quoted as saying.
    I’m not sure that is a universal truth, but I will say that it is a universal truth that one should not wear sweatpants to a New York City nightclub whether or not one is packing a Glock.
    In any event, I wish Plaxico the best. He’s one hell of a wideout even he is a can short of a six-pack..

    UPDATE! Plaxico has signed with the Jets. I was hoping he'd return to the Giants, but what the heck, half a cup's better than none.

    ***The Infidel World (us) is currently being entertained by a traditional media cud-chewing extravaganza involving so-called uprisings that have been roiling the Islamic World (them).
    Youthful idealists in Tunisia, Lebanon, Egypt, and Yemen (soon to be followed, no doubt, by faithful followers of The Prophet elsewhere) have been busy for several months rioting, looting, setting themselves on fire, issuing threats, making strange noises with their tongues, stoning women, and Allahu-Akbaring. In other words, as my wife used to put it in re her sons’ activities after they reached the age of jerk-off, they’ve been "doing their thing."
    Food shortages, foreign instigators, intrusive journalists, Twitter, Facebook, cell phones, unemployment, rigged elections, despotic rulers, Zionist conspiracies, U. S. perfidy, Hillary Clinton’s stumpy legs, Disney’s glorification of an Unbeliever Mouse, Richard the Lionhearted’s attempt to wrest Jerusalem from the Turks, Alexander the Great’s conquest of the Persian Empire, Danish cartoonists, Koran flushings, and Barack Obama’s failure to perform Wudu after pissing have all been adduced as sparks that set off the conflagrations.
    Perhaps. But careful regression analyses and several triple-blind studies by Dome of Glass cast doubt on these explanations.
    It now emerges that peoples of Islamic persuasion require periodic mass "freshenings" (rioting, looting, setting themselves on fire, issuing threats, making strange noises with their tongues, stoning women, and Allahu-Akbaring) every 50 to 75 years to freshen and reinvigorate the population’s healthy flow of fanaticism, much as a dairy cow needs to be fucked every few years in order to freshen and reinvigorate her flow of milk.
    In the case of a typical cow, the casus fucking is, generally, the cow going into heat in the vicinity of a bull.
    In the case of a typical Mohammedan mob, the casus dementia can be almost anything provided a full moon, television cameras, BBC crews, and Jimmy Carter are in the area.

    ***A few years back, a large, muscular White moron named Mark Gastineau, a defensive end for the New York Jets, took to performing what he called a "Sack Dance" whenever he brought down a quarterback.
    Everyone thought he was an asshole.
    Everyone was right.
    The league outlawed his "dance."

           Mark Gastineau doing his sack
           dance over a fallen quarterback

    Nowadays when a Black football player pulls the same sort of crap or worse the broadcasters and commentators chime in: "He’s letting his emotions hang out"...:He’s having fun"..."The fans love it"..."Let the kid enjoy himself."
    Well I don’t know what fans other than myself love, but when a 300-pound lineman performs simulated sexual intercourse after he sacks a quarterback or a 250-pound running back prances around jiggling his ass after scoring a touchdown or a six-foot-four wideout does the cakewalk after he catches a pass or a 260-pound linebacker straddles the man he has just tackled and beats on his chest like a mountain gorilla, he is insulting his opponents, debasing himself, and acting as if his audience is as crass and stupid as he is...even if he is Black.
    What? I’m a racist? Fuck you.
    It’s the media whores and coaches and team owners and NFL officials — the White apologists who think of Blacks as children with ADHD and who, out of fear and bigotry, permit and abet these ugly, undignified, embarrassing, and unsportsmanlike displays — that are the real racists.

    ***In a recent NYT recap of L’Affaire Olbermann, replete with typical liberal euphemisms for left-wing fascists ("outspoken," "distinctive," "mercurial," "forceful"), reporters Bill Carter and Brian Stelter emphasize Olbermann’s role in hiking MSNBC’s ratings and establishing the channel’s "brand.". According to the article, Olbermann’s daily rant and frequent Paul Harvey-like cornball readings of James Thurber stories, boosted MSNBC viewership from several hundred thousand to a million plus.
    What nobody seems to ask is: What sort of people constituted Olbermann’s following? Since I personally never met anyone who admitted to watching the show, my assumption is that the audience for a rabble-rouser like Olbermann consisted (you guessed it) of rabble.
    Look friends, any psychotic megalomaniac with a prime-time slot on cable TV can entice a million or two zombies to tune in provided the channel is jake with having the dregs of the earth as an audience and can dig up enough zombie advertisers and wealthy zombie activists like George Soros to foot the bill.

    ***The New York Times, America’s crusading or jihading Newspaper of Record, has once again trumped the opposition.
    In a stunning and highly disturbing exposé published August 11 by two Jews and someone who sounds Polish, the Times has revealed a horrific shortage of "minority" third-base coaches in major league baseball. Here are the shocking facts straight from the horse’s ass, er, I mean mouth as reported by Alan Schwarz, Thomas Kaplan, and Jack Styczynski:

    About 40 percent of the players in Major League Baseball are black, Hispanic or Asian, and the sport is seen as a leading example of diversity, yet a curious disparity has emerged in a corner of the game.
    Among baseball’s 30 teams, only 23 percent of the third-base coaches are members of minorities, compared with 67 percent of its first-base coaches. The disparity has existed for decades but it is now about twice as large as it was in 1990, based on an analysis by The New York Times.
    The question is why.
    It is more than a mysterious quirk...

    Is there no bottom to the bottomless pit of American top to its topless tower of anti-minority evil?
    The Times itself, despite valiant efforts to purge racists from within its own ranks, has unwittingly fallen prey to the awful sickness of discrimination.
    Why have Schwarz, Kaplan, and Styczynski failed to note that not one quadriplegic Asian is employed as a batperson by the Boston Red Sox?...That not a single Hispanic lesbian has ever hit in the cleanup position for the New York Yankees?...That only one midget has ever appeared in a major league game and, after he drew a base on balls on four straight pitches, the powers that be forbade future midgets from appearing in lineups?

    Eddie Gaedel at bat in 1951 for the White Sox,

    And how many seven-foot-tall black sportswriters are employed at the Times despite the fact that 11.37 per cent of players in the NBA are seven-foot-tall blacks? None! Coincidence? Mysterious quirk? I think not.
    I leave you with this final thought:
    Independent and rather sloppy research by Dome of Glass has found that 99.98 percent of cornerbacks in the National Football League are African American or some other kind of African and yet There Is Not a Single Black Third-Base Coach in the NFL!

    BULLETIN! The Boston Red Sox have just named Daisuke Matsuzaka as their third-base coach. This raises the percentage of Asian-non-American third-base coaches to 3.333% (6.667% if you count Dice-K’s interpreter who will share the position with him since none of Dice-K's teammates speaks Japanese)

    ***My wife and I went to buy a car last November to replace our ’95 Saturn. Our first stop was the Mazda dealer in Keene. As soon as we arrived, a heavyset member of that peculiar breed of human known as A Car Salesman bounded smilingly out of the showroom.
    "What can I do for you folks?" it inquired.
    "We’re looking for a new car," I said.
    "Anything in particular?" it asked.
    "Small," I said. "Cheap."
    Its smile faded, but it gamely led us to a collection of several hundred vehicles in various shades of maroon, blue, silver, red, gray, white, and black arrayed in a row like whores in a cat house.
    I took one look and said, "What the hell are these things?"
    "Introducing the new, updated, redesigned, improved 2010 Mazda3," the Car Salesman proudly said.

    2010 Mazda3. Teeth, mustache, and pink eyes
    available for modest cost at
    I stared at the Car Salesman, stared at my wife, stared back at the Car Salesman, gathered my thoughts.. "These are the fucking ugliest automobiles I have ever seen," I said politely. "Do you have any 2009 leftovers?"
    "They’re all sold," said the Car Salesman.
    "I can understand why," I said.
    "Let me tell you about the exciting new features in our ‘10s. There’s..."
    "I don’t care how many new features these monstrosities have. I’m not going to get up in the morning, go to the garage, and be greeted by a gaping, grinning, chrome-lipped black-holed car snout. Who designed the damn thing; the make-up guy who did Heath Ledger as the Joker?"
    "Sayonara. I’ll see you at the bankruptcy proceedings." And with that my wife and I took off as fast as our pickup could manage, praying the while that the horrific image of the new, improved, exciting 2010 Mazda3 would not linger in our nightmares.
    Back home, gin-and-tonic in hand, Two and a Half Men on the boob tube, I reviewed the day’s events. What in God’s name possessed the executives at Mazda to approve of this abomination, I asked myself.
    At first I assumed the idiots in marketing were to blame, but I soon rejected this hypothesis ─ it takes a perverse sort of genius to come up with something so appalling as the 2010 Mazda3, and it’s well-known that marketers don’t have any genius, perverse or otherwise.
    No, I decided, there was only one possible explanation for the vehicle: An agent employed by one of Mazda’s evil competitors ─ Honda, Toyota, Subaru, Isuzu, Suzuki, Mitsubishi, Hyundai, Kia ─ must have infiltrated the firm’s top management, installed Paris Hilton as head of automotive design, replaced the design team’s engineers with Haitian Zombies, and then bribed, black-mailed, and seduced the CEO, COO, and Board of Directors into approving the resultant catastrophe.


        The image of the young lady crouching alongside her pet sabretooth is from “Savage Pellucidar,” a painting by the great Frank Frazetta.
         “Dome of Glass” is a reference to Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem "Adonais," which contains the lines:
             Life like a dome of many-colored glass,
             Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
             Until Death tramples it to fragments.

        The poem is an elegy to fellow poet John Keats who died of tuberculosis in Rome, February 23, 1821, at the age of 26.